THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


\ 


THE  RHYMES 


OIF- 


RUTH    RAYNE 


HELEN  E.  MORTON. 


"Nothing  but  may  be  better, 
and  every  better  might  be  best." 


FREDONIA,  N.  Y.: 
W.  McKiNSTRY  &  SON,  Printers. 


F5 


To  MY  HIGHLY  ESTEEMED 

AND 

VERY  WORTHY  FRIEND, 

MRS.   L.   M.  EDMUNDS, 

UNDER  WHOSE  ROOF  AND 

BY  WHOSE  FIRESIDE 

MANY  OF  THESE  RHYMES  WERE  WRITTEN, 
ABE  THEY 

AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED. 


CONTENTS. 


FLOWERS  IN  THE  NIGHT.... 9 

WOULD  YOU  KNOW? 11 

THE  CHILD  AND  THE  ROSE 14 

IN  YOUR  FOOTSTEPS 17 

LEOTA 19 

THE  YOUNG  WARRIOR'S  DREAM 21 

SAVE  A  TEAR 23 

SWEET  VOICES  SINGING 25 

PICNIC  CAROL 28 

MUSINGS 32 

MARKS  OF  MYSTERY 35 

A  BUNCH  OF  WILD  GRASSES 37 

IN  AN  OLD  FASHIONED  ALBUM 38 

THREE  YEARS 40 

HAPPY  HUSKERS 43 

PLEA  TO  FASHION... 45 

BRIGHT  BEYOND 49 

THE  YOUNG  VOLUNTEER  52 

GOLDEN  WEDDING 54 

THE  RAGE  FOR  THE  RINK 57 

THE  FORCED  RECRUIT 59 

WHAT  SHE  HAD  ON 66 

HER  FATHER 70 

THE  IMMORTAL 73 

SUNSHINE  AGAIN..  75 


vi.  CONTENTS. 

» 

IN  MEMORIAM. 76 

SONG  OF  WELCOME 78 

THOUGHTS  OP  HEAVEN 80 

LITTLE  CARMEN 83 

"PERFECTLY  HORRID". 84 

MEMORIAL  DAY 86 

A  VISION 89 

FINDING  PAPA 92 

ALWAYS  THERE.. 94 

WHEN 97 

THE  OLD  SETTLER'S  LETTER 101 

IF  I  COULD 107 

GIRLS  OF  NUMBER  TEN.. HO 

I'LL  MEET  HIM  AT  THE  GATE.. 114 

TILL  YOU  PASSED  BY. 117 

DRESSMAKING 119 

A  REVERIE 123 

PRAYER  OF  THE  BEREAVED 1:>6 

DEAR  OLD  MOTHER 129 

BEAUTIFUL  RAIN..  .131 


THE  RHYMES  OF  RUTH  RAYNE, 


FLOWERS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

Not  alone  were  the   shadows  of  evening   around  me, 
For  with  them  a  darker,  invisible  came — 

A  shadow  of  loneliness — happily  broken, 

By  some  one  approaching  and  calling  my  name. 

Begging  pardon,  lest  giving  untimely  intrusion, 
The  bearer,  in  courtesy,  paused  but  to  say, 

That  the  gift  had  been  left  by  the  hands  of  the  giver, 
And  gave  to  my  keeping  a  dainty  bouquet. 

How  I  joyed  to  receive  them,  the  delicate  blossoms 
All   fragrant,   and    wet   with    the   summer   night's 
showers  ; 

But  where  the  heart's  shadow  ?   No  trace  of  it  lingered 
Dispelled  by  the  light  of  the  beautiful  flowers. 

I've  heard  of  a  gift  so  priceless  and  precious, 
To  darkness  long  reigning  imparting  a  light, 

That  darkness  the  cloud  of  despair  and  of  sorrow, 
That  gift  the   sweet  singing  of  songs  in  the  night. 


10  FLOWERS  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

But  now  do  I  know  of  a  charm  no  less  potent, 
Instead  of  the  shadow,  slow  forming  for  hours, 

Sweet  thoughts  for   the   absent,  fresh   hopes   for  the 

morrow, 
Inspired  by  a.  handful  of  night-gathered  flowers. 

With  thanks  for  your  beautiful  gift  to  a  stranger, 
Here 's  hoping  moreover,  kind  Heaven  may  please 

To  shower  upon  you  rich  flowers  of  affection 
As  freely  as  rain  drops  are  showered  on  these. 

And  when,  if  there  ever  a  similar  shadow 

Shall  come  between  your  soul  and  all  that  is  bright, 

May  some  one  be  near  to  charm  with  surprises, 
As  sweet  as  my  flowers  that  came  in  the  night. 


WOULD  YOU  KNOW  ? 

Would  you  know  before  you  meet  them, 

Of  the  thorns  strewn  in  your  way  ? 
Would  you  know  how  long  the  storm-cloud 

Will  its  sure  approach  delay? 
Would  you  know  of  projects  cherished, 

Which  shall  fail  and  which  shall  win  ? 
Where  the  skies  of  gloom  shall  brighten, 

Where  the  sunlight's  coming  in? 

Would  you  know  of  all  the  number 

That  are  seeming  friends  to-day, 
Which  in  time  shall  be  most  worthy, 

Which  shall  by  and  by  betray  ? 
Would  you  know  the  bitter  sorrow, 

That  afar  off  waits  for  you  ? 
Would  you,  could  you,  better  meet  it, 

Aided  by  prospective  view  ? 

Would  you  know  what  acts  of  kindness 

Shall  by  insult  be  repaid  ? 
And  the  added  suffering  measure 

By  the  sacrifice  you've  made  ? 
Would  you  know  the  countless  burdens, 

Grievous  to  be  borne,  at  best, 
Would  you  know  what  weary  toiling, 

Must  precede  the  promised  rest  ? 

Would  you  know  in  lieu  of  favors, 
Scorn  will  sometimes  be  bestowed? 

Know  that  those  with  power  to  lighten, 
Will  still  heavier  make  the  load  ? 


12  WOULD   YOU  KNOW? 

Would  you  know  when  joy  is  present, 
When  supreme  the  reign  of  bliss, 

That  there  comes  no  happier  season, 
That  the  merriest  time  is  this  ? 

Would  you  know  when  ample  sources 

That  you  never  dreamed  could  fail, 
Had  their  stores  of  sweetness  yielded, 

And  would  evermore  be  stale  ? 
Would  you  know  when  loved  ones  leaving, 

When  bright  e}res  with  moisture  fill, 
Whose  in  death  shall  first  be  sleeping, 

Whose  fond  heart  forever  still  ? 

Would  you,  think,  accept  the  teaching, 

Lessons  such  as  these  could  give  ? 
In  a  land  where  all  are  dying, 

Are  you  learning  how  to  live  ? 
Would  you  know  of  paths  inviting, 

Which  is  best  for  you  to  take  ? 
Would  you  know  the  awkward  failures 

You  are  destined  yet  to  make  ? 

Would  it  make  you  aught  the  wiser, 

Would  it  aught  your  joy  enhance, 
Could  you  earlier  see  what's  mirrored, 

In  a  retrospective  glance  ? 
Would  you  know  the  hopes  whose  budding 

You  have  watched  with  beaming  eye. 
Soon  shall  blossom  for  another, 

Or,  before  the  blossoming,  die  ? 

Would  you  know  the  sore  temptations, 
Still  resisting,  you  must  meet? 

Know  how  hard  'twill  be  avoiding 
Well  laid  snares  to  lure  your  feet? 


WOULD    YOU  KNOW?  13 

Would  you  be  more  truly  grateful, 

Since  of  so  much  woe  bereft, 
Would  you  bear  with  greater  patience, 

Whatsoe'er  of  trials  left  ? 

Know  you  not  that  all  sufficient 

Is  the  evil  of  to-day  ? 
Only  step  by  step  we're  bidden 

To  go  up  life's  rugged  way. 
One  there  is  who'll  safely  lead  us, 

If  His  guardianship  we  '11  take, 
One  on  whom  to  cast  our  burdens, 

One  who  never  will  forsake  ; 

He  will  grant  us  all  of  pleasure 

Faultless  wisdom  can  bestow, 
Duly  check  the  angry  tempest, 

Nor  too  rudely  let  it  blow. 
Though  He  moves  in  ways  mysterious, 

Though  we're  powerless  to  tell 
What,  for  us,  His  purpose  may  be, 

Yet,  "He  cloeth  all  things  well." 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  ROSE. 

'Twas  the  morn  of  a  day  in  the  summer, 

Though  the  morn  was  fast  n earing  its  close, 
That  a  little  girl  came  to  my  window, 

And  timidly  asked  for  a  rose. 
She  wasn  't  a  common  street  beggar, 

Though  'twas  plain  she  was  Poverty's  child, 
Her  brown  eyes  were  pensive  and  tender, 

And  even  looked  sad  when  she  smiled. 

Her  bonnet  was  simply  a  shaker, 

To  shield  from  the  sun's  scorching  rays, 
Her  dress  threatened  soon  to  forsake  her, 

And  had  long  ago  seen  its  best  days. 
I  was  ready  and  willing  to  grant  it, 

As  soon  as  she  made  her  request, 
But  her  face  told  me  something  of  sorrow, 

And  I  wished  her  to  tell  me  the  rest. 
So  I  said  :     "Where 's  your  home,  little  stranger  ? 

And  who  are  your  parents  ?  pray,  tell, 
And  why  in  the  street  you  're  a  ranger, 

And  why  you  like  roses  so  well  ?" 
"My   mother,  alas,  is  a  widow, 

My   father  and  brother  are  dead  ; 
I  live  all  alone  with  my  mother, 

And  they  call  me  an  orphan,"  she   said. 

And  then  she   stopped   talking  a  moment, 

As  if  she  suspected,  or   knew, 
I  would  say  "  'Tis  an  everyday   story. 

And    probably    wholly  untrue." 


THE   CHILD  AND  THE  ROSE.  15 

But  I  smiled,  so  she  ventured  to  do  so, 
And  her  smile  was  engagingly  sweet, 

And  she  finished  the  tale  she   was  telling, 
Nor  faltered  till  it  was  complete. 

"There's  only  one  room  in  our  dwelling, 

A  safe  and  a  quiet  retreat, 
But  there's  no  pleasant  garden  about  it, 

And  so  I  must  play  in  the  street. 
And  I  always  go  nearest  the  roses, 

For,  though  I  am  fond  of  the  rest, 
And  think  other  flowers  are  lovely, 

I  somehow  like  roses  the  best. 

"A  bud  was  the  gateway  adorning, 

And  now  it  is  only  half  blown, 
I've  watched  it,  close  by,  all  the  morning, 

O,  may  I  not  call  it  my  own  ? 
I'll  take  it  light  home  to  my  mother, 

Who  sits  by  the  window  and  sews, 
I  know  she  will  bless  you  kind  lady, 

For  sending  this  beautiful  rose. 

"And  she'll  tell  me  again  the  sad  story, 
.     She 's  told  me  so  often  before — 
How  father  went  out  with  the  army, 

And  never  came  home  any  more. 
Yes,  mother  likes   roses, — though  sometimes, 

The  sight  of  them  quickens    her  grief, 
For  once,  as  she  held   one  I  gave  her, 

A  tear  trickled  down  on  the   leaf. 

"From  her  cheeks,  too,  the  roses  are  fading, 

And  paler  are  growing  each  day  ; 
It  must  be,  (so  often  she's  weeping), 

The  teardrops  have  washed  them  away." 


16  THE  CHILD  AND   THE  ROSE. 

Then  I  gave  her  a  cluster  of  r6ses, 

And  the  one  she  had  asked  for  beside, 

And  bade  her  ask  more  when  she  wished  them, 
Nor  fear  she  would  e'er  be  denied. 

Just  a  moment  she  waited  to  thank  me, 

And  give  me  one  smile  of  delight, 
Then  darted  away  round  the  corner, 

And  was  suddenly  lost  to  my  sight. 
Though  I  never  again  should  behold  her, 

Through  life,  now  and  then,  to  its  close, 
I  shall  think  of  that  child,  and  how  happy 

She  looked  when  I  gave  her  the  rose. 

And  reader,  if  yours  is  the  spirit 

To  soften  or  lessen  life's  woes, 
Don't  laugh  at  an  offering  so  simple, 

Or  scorn  to  give  even  a  rose. 
For,  "Even  a  .cup  of  cold  water," 

So  said  our  Redeemer  and  Lord, 
"If  in  a  disciple's  name  given, 

Shall  never  be  wanting   reward." 


IN  YOUR  FOOTSTEPS. 

When  little  Ida,  eagerly, 

Her  father's  presence  sought, 
And  smiled  as  in  the  garden  grounds 

A  glimpse  of  him  she   caught, 
The  father's  welcome  caution  spake, — 

"Be  careful  where  you  tread, 
"Come  this  way,  in  the  path,  my  child, 
Don't  walk  upon  the  bed." 

And  joyously  the  happy  child 

As  she  was  bidden  came, 
Content  to  linger  at  his  side, 

And  calling  oft  his  name. 
But  when  the  parent  found  it  good, 

Forbidden  ground  to  take, 
And  stepped  upo-n  a  blooming  bank, 

Some  needed  change  to  make, 

A  cloud  fell  o'er  the  baby  brow, 
Checking  her  flow  of  mirth, 
As  soberly  she  looked  upon 

His   footprints  in  the  earth. 
And  then,  with  brightening,  wishful  eye, 

And  pleading  tone  she  said, 
"Dear  father  !  may  I  follow  you 

If  in  your  steps  I  tread  ?" 
"Heaven  bless  my  child  !"  (the  fervent  words 

Blended  with  fond   caress) — 
"And  lead  me  only  by  a  way 
Her  tender  feet  may  press." 


18  /-A"  YOUR  FOOTSTEPS. 

Happy  the  child  that's  gently  led, 

Not  forced  to  love  the  right, 
Happy  the  mother  who  thus  wins 

By  an  example   bright. 
Alas  !    too  many  a  weeping  one 

In  bitterness  hath  said, 
"How  shall  I  blame  the  wayward  one  ? 

Hither  my  footsteps  led." 

"There  is  a  way  that  seemeth  right, 

The  ends  of  which  are  death  ;" 
Hidden  at  first  the  serpent  there, 

Unfelt  his  poisonous  breath  ; 
Sad  the  response  by  eager  youths 

Forbidden  there  to  tread, — 
"Father,  I  'm  safe  !     I  'm  following  you  ! 
This  way  your  footsteps  led." 


LEOTA; 

When  the  earth  into  new  life  was  springing, 
And  song  birds  in  companies  came, 

In  the  home  nest  a  sweet  one  was  singing, 
Leota  the  fair  birdling's  name. 

In  our  joy  at  the  newly  sent  blessing, 

We  forgot  that  'twas  only  one  lent, 
Forgot — till  was  stayed  our   caressing 

By  the  death  angel,  suddenly  sent. 

How  dark  was  the  gloom  not  yet  vanished, 

How  bitter  the  tears  that  we  shed, 
When  we  saw  the  destroyer  had  finished, 

When  we  knew  that  Leota  was  dead. 

How  brief  was  the  time  of  our  keeping 
This  treasure,  we  named  for  our  own  ; 

When  the  flowers  next  awoke  from  their  sleeping, 
And  the  birds  came,  our  birdling  had  flown — 

Gliding  in  as  the  pearty  gates  parted, 

To  go  no  more  out  but  to  dwell 
Where  earth's  sad  ones  are  made  joyous  hearted, 

And  friends  never  murmur  farewell. 

He  who  gave  to  the  little  ones  blessing, 
Who  with  His  hands  refused  not  to  touch, 

Is  to-day  our  Leota  possessing, 

And  His  heavenly  kingdom  of  such. 

By  the  grace  now  for  which  we  have  striven, 
All  blessed,  thrice  blessed,  we  say, 


30  LEOTA.. 

Be  the  name  of  our  God  who  hath  given, 
Hath  given,  and  taken   away. 

As  roughly  we  toss  on  life's  ocean, 

What  comfort  this  knowledge  may  yield, 

She  is  safe  from  the  pain  and  commotion 
From  which  earthly  love  could  not  shield. 

We  could  not  cross  over  the  river, 

Nor  lead  through  death's  shadowy  gate, 

She  has  distanced  to  repass  it  never, 
While  this  side  we  wander  and  wait. 

In  the  mansions  of  God   we  are  nearing, 
We  may  see  our  Leota  once  more, 

Christ,  and  all  those  who  love  his  appearing, 
And  die  not,  but  live  evermore. 


THE  YOUNG  WARRIOR'S  DREAM. 

In  slumbers  of  midnight  the  soldier  boy  lay, 

His  head  on  his  well  laden  knapsack  reclined, 
While  foot-sore  and  weary  from  marching  all  day, 

Sleep   gladdened    his   heait   and   unburdened    his 

mind. 
The  night  breeze  is  tossing  his  blanket  there,  now, 

And  turning  the  corners  up  over  his  eyes, 
The  dewdrops  are  kissing  the  dust  from  his  brow, 

And  the  stars  light  them  down  from  their  home 
in  the  skies. 

He  dreams  of  his  home,  of  his  home  by  the  sea, 
And  enters  it  gaily,  his  battle-race  run, 

Discharged  from  the  service,  and  honorably   free, 
His  gray-headed  father  now  welcomes  his  son. 

He  dreams  of  his  mother;  her  tearful  embrace; 

Of  a  brother's  glad  shout,  and  a  sister's  fond  kiss, 
He  takes  by  the  fireside  his  long  vacant  place, 

And  naught  for  a  season  o'ershadows  his  bliss. 

* 
He  dreams  that  he  tells  them  the  war  cloud  is  past ; 

Triumphant  again  are  the  stripes  and  the  stars, 
His  honor  untarnished  has  been  to  the  last, 
And  over  his  shoulders  the  two  little  bars. 

How   changed   is   the   picture  !      By   morning's  first 
beams 

The  camp  in  confusion,  surprised  by  the  foe ; 
The  soldier  boy  starts  in  alarm  from  his  dreams, 

And  forward  in  battle  is  foremost  to  go. 


22  THE  YOUNG   WARRIORS  DREAM. 

All  day  raged  the  conflict ;  and  when  it  was  done, 
The  sun  in  his  setting  shone  bright  o'er  the  plain, 

The  foe  had  deserted  ;  the  blue  coats  had  won, 

But  hundreds  lay  wounded,  and  many  were  slain. 

O,  soldier  boy  !  woe  to  thy  dream  of  delight  ! 

And  woe  to  the  kindred  who  wait  thy  return; 
O,  heavy  the  shadow  of  sorrow's  dark  night, 

To  close  around  them  when  the  tidings  they  learn. 

Sleep,  soldier,  where  sweet  was  thy  slumber  in  life ; 
"Discharged  from  the  service,"  may  truly  be  said, 
No.  battle-cry  ringing  wins  thee  to  the  strife, 

Discharged  with  true  honor — the  soldier  boy 's  dead. 


SAVE  A  TEAR. 

Once,  as  two  mutual  friends  engaged 
In  writing  letters  side  by  side, 

To  kindred  ones  who  from  themselves 
By  sea  and  land  were  parted  wide, 

The  elder  to  the  younger  said, 
"Your  letter  send  with  my  address, 

'Twill  safefy  reach  its  destined  home, 
And  then  for  you  the  cost  be  less." 

"Ah,  no  !  the  beauteous  answer  was, 

These  lines  penned  to  a  mother  dear, 
Will  soonest  reach  her  sent  direct, 

And  then,  besides,  may  save  a  tear  !" 
Save  her  a  tear  !     What  wealth  of  heart ! 

The  rarest  gift  God  ever  gave, — 
What  loving  care  and   tenderness 

That  thought  a  mother's  tear  to  save. 
Blest  mother  !     Could  she,  far  away, 

Her  darling's  ready  answer  hear, 
Its  memory,  in  a  darksome  hour, 

Might  save  her  many  a  bitter  tear. 
To  save  a  tear  !     Tis  not  a  small, 

Or  trifling  deed  of  little  worth, 
And,  in  the  multitude  of  hearts, 

What  pity  there  is  such  a  dearth 

Of  this  same  tenderness  and  care 
For  those  we  have  the  power  to  cheer, 

The  power  to  gladden  and  delight — 
And  save  where  we  create  a  tear. 


24  SAVE  A  TEAR. 

And  woman's  life  much  sorrow  knows 
That  she  must  deeply  buried  keep, — 

A  sacred  trust,  a  constant  charge, 
O'er  which  in  secret  she  may  weep. 

And  thought  hath  sometime  said  to  me, 

If  tears  could  serve  to  wash  out  sin, 
And  purchase  immortality, 

What  bliss  a  woman's  tears  might  win. 
And  if  you  say  a  woman's  face 

Is  like  the  earlier  springtime  sky, 
Revealing  sunshine  of  sweet  smiles 

Ere  the  light  showers  of  tears  are  dry, 

Know  too,  that  drops  from  April  clouds 

Are  genuine  raindrops,  none  the  less — 
And  woman's  easiest  bidden  tears 

The  moment's  real  heart  pain  express. 
If  I  might  choose  a  lifelong  friend, 

I  'd  seek  amid  the  true  and  brave, 
Nor  rest  me  short  of  one  like  him, 

Who  thought  a  mother's  tear  to  save. 


SWEET  VOICES  SINGING. 

I  have  heard  sweet  voices  singing  : 

Once,  as  the  morning  light 
Proclaimed  the  glad  departure 

Of  the  long,  wearying  night, 
And  I  gazed  from  my  couch  in  longing — 

With  the  flood  of  sunlight's  gold, 
A  wave  of  low,  sweet  music 

Into  the  sick  room  rolled. 
And  again  in  the  hush  of  evening, 

That  followed  the  restless  day, 
As,  dreading  the  hours  of  darkness, 

Impatiently  I  lay, 
The  same  sweet  music  floated 

Up  from  a  garden  bower, 
A  balm  to  the  troubled  spirit, 

Soothing  my  soul  that  hour.  » 

To  me  they  were  strangers'  voices, 

Unknowrn  both  form  and  name 
Of  my  unseen  evening  charmers, 

But  I  bless  them  all  the  same — 
'  For  the  comfort  that  they  gave  me — 

Though  by  them  undreamed,  unthought, 
The  lesson  of  hope  and  patience, 

So  beautifully  taught. 

I  have  heard  sweet  voices  singing: 

Oft,  in  the  recent  years, 
A  tender  voice  hath  reached  me, 

Its  tones  suggesting  tears  ; 


26  SWEET  VOICES  SINGING. 

As  the  loved  "Sweet  Home"  was  gently 

And  tremblingly  expressed, 
I  recognized  its  meaning 

To  the  sorrowing  singer's  breast ; 
For  I  knew  that  the  dearest  idol 

That  had  made  her  "sweet  home"  sweet, 
Had  passsed  from  earth  to  the  heavenly. 

To  its  rest  and  joy  complete. 

I  have  heard  sweet  voices  singing  : 

This  time  'twas  an  infant's  voice, 
In  silvery,  bird-like  accents, 

Making  the  soul  rejoice  ; 
And,  sung  in  her  winning  manner, 

The  baby's  song  I  heard, 
Catching  her  joyous  spirit, 

And  now  and  then  a  word  : 
Something  about  a  temple  fair — 

"That  hath  no  room  for  sin, 
Something  about  a  little  child — 

And  the  way  of  entering  in." 
And  I  kissed  the  lovely  songstress, 

For  remembrance  brought-  to  me, 
That  of  such  is  Heaven's  kingdom, 

And  longed  to  humble  be. 

I  have  heard  sweet  voices  singing : 

Feeble,  and  gray,  and  old, 
The  singer's  words  and  music 

Were  faint  and  faltering  told  ; 
But  the  song  in  the  heart  unfailing, 

Essayed  the  lips  their  best, 
To  render  to  Him  just  praises, 

Who  comforteth  those  oppressed  ; 


SWEET  VOICES  SINGING.  27 

Who  giveth  to  His  beloved 

Sufficient  for  each  day, 
Peace — as  the  world  ne'er  giveth — 

Neither  can  take  away. 
And  knowing  that  many  burdens, 

And  grievous  to  be  borne, 
Had  rested  on  her  spirit, 

And  sorrows  made  her  mourn, 
It  silenced  the  useless  murmurs 

Which  had  been  my  lips  upon, 
And  bade  me  hope  through  clouded  ways, 

It  is  better  farther  on. 

I  have  heard  sweet  voices  singing  : 

Sometimes,  kind  friends  beside, 
Waking  the  happiest  echoes, 

My  own  to  join  hath  tried  ; 
But  new  leaves  in  th6  story 

Of  life,  the  scenes  have  changed  ; 
For  Death  his  own  hath  taken, 

And  distance  some  estranged  ; 
But  some  one  shall  hear  their  voices, 

To  gladsome  melodies  lent, 
Thankful  that  ever  the  blessed, 

Sweet  mission  of  song  was  sent. 


PICNIC  CAROL. 

Mom  at  Casadaga  ! 

Morn  of  perfect  day, 
Answered  we  the  summons, 

"To  the  woods  away  !" 
Welcome  !  lovely  morning  ! 

Welcome  !  and  all  hail 
To  this  beauteous  island, 

Charming  Lily  Dale  ! 
Sweetest  breath  of  summer 

Meets  us  entering  here, 
Sweetest  bird-voice  music 

Falls  upon  the  ear ; 
Fragrant  shrubs  and  flowers 

Gemmed  with  Heaven's  dew, 
Glowing  in  the  sunlight, 

Green  leaves  struggling  through  ; 
Skies  of  purest  azure 

Now  and  then  are  seen, 
Showing  through  the  tree  tops 

Earth  and  sky  between  ; 
Birds  among  the  branches, 

Ready  to  take  wing, 
Won't  you  go  to  meet  them, 

In  this  pleasant  swing  ? 
Fanned  by  gentlest  breezes 

In  this  fair  retreat, 
Waves  of  Casadaga 

Breaking  at  our  feet, 


PICNIC  CAROL.  29 

Here  we  rest — and  linger — 

Cares  all  throw  away, 
All,  save  joy,  forgetting, 

For  one  glad,  free  day. 

Soon,  a  group,  with  footsteps 

Anything  but  slow, 
Reach  a  boat  in  waiting, 

Take  an  early  row. 
Watch  those  merry  maidens 

As  the  oars  they  take, 
Here's  "A  pleasant  voyage  I 

Lady  of  tHe  Lake  !" 
"O  !  the  lovely  lillies  !" 

Joyously  they  cry ; 
"O  !  those  waxen  beauties ! 

Do  not  pass  them  by." 
Floral  treasures  taken, 

Lavish  praise  on  each, 
But  of  course  lamenting 

Those  beyond  their  reach. 
Ever  so  with  pleasures 

Found  so  hard  to  grasp, 
Won — we're  still  regretting 

Those  we  cannot  clasp. 

What  a  time  they  're  having 

Playing  olden  games, 
Spying  out  the  hidden, 

Calling  out  the  names ; 
These  around  the  corner 

Very  humbly  bent, 
What  a  funny  tableau 

Some  of  them  present. 


PICNIC  CAROL. 

Noon  at  Casadaga ! 

All  come  thronging  in  : 
Favorite  game  is  dinner, 

All  may  hope  to  win. 
Bring  the  pond'rous  baskets 

And  the  feast  prepare  ; 
What  a  room  for  dining 

Is  the  open  air. 
This  is  "Lookout  Table"— 

Looking  o'er  the  lake — 
Bill  of  fare 's  before  you, 

Pray  what  will  you  take  ? 

One,  now  worn  and  weary, 

Sleeps  beneath  a  tree  ; 
Slumber  on,  fair  dreamer, 

Naught  shall  hinder  thee. 
Lounging  on  the  green  sward, 

Many  idly  muse ; 
Others — more  sedate  ones — 

Going  through  the  news  ; 
Perched  upon  a  tree  stump, 

Naught  around  they  heed, 
Satisfied  each  longing, 

Dailies  fresh  to  read. 
Others  take  a  carriage, 

Leaving  all  behind, 
Seek  another  region, 

Other  joys  to  find. 
Some  prefer  to  ramble 

Wildest  wildwood  through, 
Pathway  hidden,  narrow, 

Room  enough  for  two. 
Still  the  balls  are  rolling 

Such  a  fearful  wnv. 


PICNIC  CAROL. 

"Tisn't  strange  the  singer 

Called  it  '"queer  croquet." 
Dulcet  sounds  are  wafted 

To  us  o  'er  and  o  'er, 
By  those  happj'  rowers 

Near  the  other  shore ; 
Louder,  clearer,  sweeter, 

Comes  the  glad  refrain, 
Singers  on  the  island 

Join  the  happy  strain. 
Ever,  on  life's  voyage, 

Singing  as  they  sail, 
May  the  istes  be  lovely 

As  this  Lily  Dale. 

Night  at  Casadaga ! 

Lo,  the  waiting  train  ; 
Farewell,  lake  and  island, 

Till  we  come  again. 
Leave  we  woodland  fairies 

Undisputed  right 
To  sport  away  with  naiads 

The  witching  hours  of  night. 


MUSINGS. 

[Written  upon  a  sick  bed.J 

O,  earth  hath  many  a  tempest, 

And  many  a  raging  storm, 
Which  beat  at  times  so  heavily 

Upon  the  human  form, 
That  life  itself  a  burden  seems. 

Instead  of  precious  boon, 
And  we  in  bitterness  exclaim 

Death  cannot 'come  too  soon. 

Yet,  if  that  angel  should  appear 

While  we  are  musing  so, 
And  hasten  us  to  worlds  unknown 

Should  we  not  grieve  to  go  ? 
The  happy  land  is  far  above, 

And  all  who  dwell  below, 
Must  find  this  world  a  wilderness 

And  have  a  taste  of  woe. 

Sunbeams  and  shadows  all  the  way 

Alternately  appear, 
Each  pleasure  hath  its  rival  pain, 

Each  smile,  a  rival  tear. 
When  all  is  well  how  strong  we  are, 

Unmindful  of  His  care 
Who  noteth  every  sparrow's  fall, 

And  numbers  every  hair 

Upon  the  heads  of  those  He  makes 
The  children  of  His  trusfc, 


MUSINGS.  33 

And  sends  the  sun  to  shine  upon 

The  evil  and  the  just. 
How  often  do  we  think  from  whom 

Our  blessings  flow  so  free  ? 
Or  feel  if  earth  is  ever  fair, 

How  glorious  Heaven  must  be  ? 

Each  heart  hath  its  own  bitterness, 

And  all  of  us  are  prone 
To  think  the  heaviest  load  of  grief 

Is  that  which  we  have  known  ; 
We  do  not  fully  prize  the  rose 

Till  we  have  grasped  a  thorn  ; 
And  who  that  hath  no  darkness  known, 

Would  hail  the  light  of  morn  ? 

One-half  of  all  our  miseries, 

Unhappily  we  borrow ; 
As  if  to-day's  were  not  enough, 

We  seek  some  for  to-morrow. 
Our  happiest  hours  are  seldom  known 

Till  buried  with  the  past ; 
No  thanks  have  we — we  only  groan, 

Because  they  did  not  last. 

We  read,  upon  the  sacred  page, 

That  by  grief's  sombre  shade, 
Seen  often  on  the  countenance, 

The  heart  is  better  made; 
And  we  may  learn  in  hours  of  woe 

The  hand  of  Him  to  trace, 

• 

Who  "  'neath  a  frowning  providence 
Hides  still  a  smiling  face." 

The  cup  of  sorrow  often  proves 
A  blessing  in  disguise  ; 


34  MUSINGS.  • 

And  we  should  drink  it  as  the  flowers 
Drink  rain-drops  from  the  skies. 

The  sum  of  all  our  sufferings 
Cannot  with  His  compare, 

Who  hung  upon  the  cross  for  us, 
And  breathed  His  life  out  there. 

Then  when  the  hour  of  trial  comes — 

When  health  and  strength  forsake — 
We  need  to  gird  our  souls  anew, 

And  added  courage  take. 
And  when  the  path's  a  rugged  one, 

Why  must  we  fret  and  frown? 
Forgetting  that  'twas  cruel  thorns 

Made  up  our  Savior's  crown. 

O,  if  we  ever  enter  Heaven, 

Around  the  great  white  throne, 
Where  all  the  mysteries  of  time 

Are  finally  made  known, 
Shall  we  not  think,  if  we  recall,        » 

The  sufferings  here  we  bear, 
But  "light  afflictions,  which  work  out 

Eternal  glory  there?" 


MARKS  OF  MYSTERY. 

Little  Flora,  aged  four, 
Slipping  through  the  half-closed  door, 
Finds  a  book,  whose  open  page, 
Seems  to  all  her  thoughts  engage ; 
Finds  the  pen,  by  some  one  left, 
So,  with  dimpled  fingers,  deft, 
And  with  wise  and  happy  look, 
Flora  writes  within  the  book. 


Seven  little  faltering  marks, 
Penned  by  a  baby's  hand  ; 

Seven  faintly  shaded  lines  ; 
Ah  !  who  can  understand. 

And  then  drawn  near  to  these, 
Find  some  half  dozen  more  ; 

One,  pausing  just  in  time  to  form 
A  gateway,  or  a  door. 

I  cannot  make  it  out,  I'm  sure, 
This  infant's  puzzling  scrawl, 

I  know  not  how  to  choose  the  words, 
Nor  what  the  whole  to  call. 

Her  baby  face  I've  never  seen, 
Yet  I  am  forced  to  doubt, 

If  her  own  eyes,  beholding  this, 
Would  fullv  make  it  out. 


36  MARKS  OF  MYSTERY. 

A  pleasing  mystery  remains, 

Ne'er  to  be  fathomed  quite, 
All  undivulged  her  childish  thoughts, 

And  what  she  meant  to  write. 

They  might  be  meaningless  to  you, 

A  "trifle  light  as  air," 
Or  you  might  think  their  presence  marred, 

And  frown  to  have  them  there  ; 

But  this  I  know,  I  would  not  have 
These  lines  the  darling  traced, 

For  any  other  hand  on  earth 
Rejected  or  effaced. 

This  page  her  lines  must  ever  bear, 
The  light  ones  and  the  dark, 

If  Flora  did  not  sign  her  name, 
She  made  for  me  her  mark. 


A  BUNCH  OF  WILD  GRASSES. 

"A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy," 

This  was  the  poet's  thought, 
And  so  I  said  when  this  bouquet 
A  friend  in  kindness  brought 

'T was  not  in  cultured  garden  ground 
These  buds  and  blossoms  smiled, 

On  the  rich  prairies  they  were  found, 
And  in  the  forest  wild. 

The  many  would  have  passed  them  by, 

As  born  to  bloom  unseen  ; 
Or  formed  to  flourish  and  to  die, 

With  but  a  breath  between. 

But  one  beheld  them  and  admired, 
Where  others  had  despised, 

With  paint  she  some  of  them  attired, 
And  some  she  crystallized. 

With  skillful  hand  and  practiced  eye, 
She  placed  each  leaf  and  blade, 

Soft  hues  that  with  each  other  vie, 
And  those  of  deeper  shade. 

Of  barley,  and  of  wheat,  a  spray, 

To  each  a  place  assigned, 
And  thus  the  useful  with  the  gay 

Are  tastefully  combined. 

Enough  of  nature  to  be  real, 

Enough  of  art  to  stay, 
Their  beauty,  such,  I  joy  to  feel, 

As  knoweth  not  decay. 


IN  AN  OLDFASHIONED  ALBUM. 

When  I  have  looked  this  volume  through, 

And  scanned  its  storied  leaves, 
Where  love  and  friendship  for  so  long 

Have  garnered  up  their  sheaves, 
And  thought  of  all  those  early  friends 

Whose  names,  recorded  here, 
Evince  how  many  were  the  hearts 

That  held  thine  own  so  dear, 

I  've  backward  glanced  adown  time's  stream, 

And  asked  :  "Would  they,  who  live, 
If  suffered  to  behold  ni}7  verse. 

A  welcome  to  it  give?" 
The  very  years  this  book  hath  known 

Make  it  a  sacred  thing — 
A  relic  of  the  past ;  and  joys — 

That  one  by  one  took  wing. 

As  usual,  in  a  book  like  this, 

The  wish  is  oft  expressed, 
That  time  would  bring  thee  joys,  alone, 

The  dearest  and  the  best. 
And  could  kind  friends  keep  back  life's  ills, 

Thou  hadst  been  free,  indeed  ; 
No  earthly  comfort  languished  for, 

Of  pleasure  felt  no  need. 

Yet,  while  so  many  blessings  rare 
Along  thy  way  have  lain, 


IN  AN  OLD  FASHIONED  ALBUM.  39 

The  same  kind  hand  that  gave  thee  these, 

Bade  Sorrow  have  her  reign. 
And  thou  hast  learned  the  lesson  well, 

That  comes  betimes  to  all, 
That  into  brightest,  sunniest  lives 

The  rain  must  sometimes  fall. 

The  hearts  that  loved  thee  would  have  wreathed 

A  wreath  for  thee  to  wear ; 
'Tis  done — no  fitter  could  be  twined 

Than  these  full  pages  bear. 
But  some  who  left  their  offerings  here, 

To-day  are  written  dead  ; 
Others,  who  climbed  with  thee  life's  hill, 

The  other  side  now  tread  ; 

And  silvery  locks  above  thy  brow, 

To  all  this  truth  attest, 
That  nearer  draweth  year  by  year, 

The  ransomed  spirit's  rest. 
And  if  by  early  friends  beloved, 

It  is  but  just  to  say, 
Others  are  thine — enough  to  fill 

A  larger  book  to-day. 

And  ere  I  lay  this  volume  down, 

To  me  it  seems  but  meet 
That  I  should  leave  within  its  lids 

What  I  so  oft  repeat  : 
O'er  all  the  pathway  thou  hast  trod, 

Thy  sterling  virtues  shine, 
While  thy  good  words  and  noble  deeds 

Have  shed  a  light  on  mine. 


THREE  YEARS. 

I've  wandered  by  the  schoolhouse,  Kate, 

I've  looked  in  at  the  door, 
Where  you  and  I  together  sat, 

And  searched  for  hidden  lore. 
But  I  could  not  bear  to  linger  long, 

My  heart  was  grieving  so, 
To  see  how  sadly  all  had  changed, 

Since  three  short  years  ago. 

The  old  High  School  is  altered  now, 

Our  places  there  are  filled 
By  schoolgirls  somewhat  like  ourselves 

And  maybe  better  skilled  ; 
But  the  same  old  stairs  are  in  the  hall, 

And  maidens  come  and  go, 
With  hearts  as  light,  and  hopes  as  bright 

As  ours,  three  }7ears  ago. 

The  trees  are  just  as  green,  dear  Kate, 

The  flowers  still  bloom  as  fair, 
The  birds  sing  just  as  sweetly  now, 

As  they  did  when  we  were  there  ; 
But  the  master's  gone — a  captain  brave, 

To  meet  the  southern  foe  ; 
And  a  stranger  fills  the  honored  place 

He  filled  three  years  ago. 

Yes,  strange  to  us,  though  kind  his  voice, 
And  winning  be  his  smile  ; 


THREE  YEARS.  41 

Sweet  mein'ries  of  the  absent  one 

Float  'round  us  all  the  while. 
He  may  be  wise,  and  learn'd  and  good, 

We  ne'er  could  love  him  though, 
As  we  loved  the  one  who  taught  us  there, 

Some  three  short  years  ago. 

The  ball  and  bat  rest  side  by  side, 

Within  the  playground  wall, 
Their  owners  have  exchanged  them,  Kate, 

For  sword  and  minie  ball ; 
The}7  left  their  homes  and  volunteered, 

A  warrior's  life  to  know  ; 
And  soldiers  now,  were  schoolboys  then, 

Just  three  short  years  ago. 

Yet  no  !  not  all — for  some  are  missed 

From  out  that  noble  train, 
Their  comrades  left  them  sleeping 

With  the  hosts  of  noble  slain; 
And  some  are  sick  and  languishing, 

Longing  in  vain,  we  know, 
For  a  touch  of  the  hands  that  cared  for  them 

Some  three  sad  years  ago. 

Of  all  the  girls  in  our  old  class, 

Not  one  remains  the  same, 
For  some  are  changed  in  nature,  now, 

And  more  are  changed  in  name ; 
And  one  has  fallen  asleep,  dear  Kate, 

'Neath  the  blossoms  she  loved  laid  low, 
Ah  !  little  thought  we  of  a  grave  for  Maud, 

But  three  short  years  ago. 

Tears  for  the  loved  ones  taken,  Kate, 
But  hope  with  earnest  cheer, 


43  THREE  TEARS. 

Hope,  yet  again  to  meet  with  those 
Who  leave  us  wondering  here  ; 

By  the  river  of  life  to  gather, 
Where  living  waters  flow, 

And  love  them  there  as  we  loved  them  here, 
Some  three  short  years  ago. 


HAPPY  HUSKERS. 

[During  the  War,  when  the  demand  for  farm  labor  greatly  exceeded  the  supply> 
women  and  girls  and  even  small  children,  went  into  the  fields  to  help  gather  and 
store  the  crops.  Tne  writer,  with  her  mother  and  sisters,  bore  a  part  in  the  various 
kinds  of  field  work.  .  "Woman's  Work  m  the  Civil  War."] 

Let  others  sing  of  grander  deeds, 

The  mighty  and  sublime  ; 
Be  mine  the  humbler  task,  just  now, 

To  sing  of  the  husking  time. 
When  off  to  the  fields  each  morn  alike, 

We  took  the  easiest  way, 
Till  night  from  morn,  we  gathered  the  corn, 

Through  many  an  autumn  day. 

'Tis  true  we  often  weary  were 

Before  the  noon  bell  rang, 
But  still  we  halted  not  for  this, 

And  this  is  the  song  we  sang  : 
"We've  worked  long  in  the  field, 

We've  handled  many  an  ear, 
We'll  finish  the  row,  before  we  go, 

And  leave  no  gleanings  here." 

What  though  the  northern  breeze 

Swept  over  plain  and  hill, 
And  sought  to  sweep  us  in  its  path, 

As  northern  breezes  will ; 
We  only  worked  the  faster  then, 

Proud  dwellers  on  free  soil, 
We  chose  the  task,  nor  scorned  to  ask, 

A  respite  from  our  toil. 


44  HAPPY  HU8KERS. 

What  if  the  golden  corn  was  hid, 

Beneath  the  frost  and  sleet ; 
Our  fingers  aching  with  the  cold, 

And  just  the  same  our  feet ; 
What  if  the  angry  clouds  above, 

Frowned  on  us  to  our  sorrow, 
Xo  tears  we  shed,  but  laughing  said, 

"The  sun  will  shine  to-morrow/' 

But  some,  we  knew,  despised  the  toil, 

Such  health  and  vigor  giving ; 
They  could  not  think  of  husking  corn, 

To  gain  an  honest  living. 
We  heeded  not  their  idle  scorn, 

But  toiled  on,  singing  gaily, 
No  sweeter  rest  can  be  possessed, 

Than  when  we  labor  daily. 

And  when  our  healthful  task  was  done 

Crosslots,  our  homeward  way, 
We  went  beneath  the  evening  stars, 

Or  in  the  twilight  gray. 
Or  when  the  wagon-box  was  filled 

With  corn  to  overflowing, 
Sometimes  we  rode  upon  the  load, 

And  sang  these  words  while  going: 

"Fathers  and  brothers  far  away, 

Hungry,  and  lacking  bread, 
Nothing  to  lose,  or  wasted  be, 

Save  all  the  corn,  we  said. 
We'll  handle  the  hoe,  the  spade,  the  rake, 

We'll  plant,  and  gather  the  grain, 
This  be  our  share,  to  do  and  dare, 

Till  peace  once  more  shall  reign." 


PLEA  TO  FASHION. 

Are  they  finished,  Dame  Fashion?  are  they  all  complete? 

Is  everything  lovely,  and  everything  neat? 

Are  they  just  what  we  want,  and  you  wish  them  to  be? 

The  fashions,  I  mean,  for  seventy-three. 

And,  lovely  or  not,  must  they  still  be  our  fate? 

Your  pardon,  dear  madam,  if  'tisn't  too  late, 

I  would  give  a  suggestion — would  venture  a  plea — 

For  the  sake  of  the  fair,  will  you  listen  to  me? 

The  soft  airs  of  springtime  are  coming,  they  say, 

A  few  idle  ones  have  been  floating  this  way ; 

And  there  rose  to  my  view  at  the  sound  of  their  wings, 

Visions  of — O,  the  most  beautiful  things  ! 

Which  we  hope  may  be  ours  when  the  Maytime  we  see, 

With  her  wonderful  styles  for  seventy-three. 

Believe  me,  dear  Fashion,  I  don't  want  to  scold, 

About  what  you  have  sent,  and  now  growing  old ; 

But  the  task  is  a  great  one  for  even  your  brain, 

Always  bringing  forth  styles  that  are  new,  in  the  main, 

So  I  thought  to  relieve  you,  and  only  suggest 

Some  thoughts  for  disposal  as  seemeth  you  best. 

To  begin  with  the  bonnets:     Most  wonderful  shapes — 

Without  any  strings,  and  without  any  cape?, 

The  soup-plates  and  saucers,  work-baskets  and  mats, 

All  sorts  of  arrangements  called  bonnets  and  hats, 

We've  bravely  met  all ;  we've  tried  the  whole  crew  ; 
We  can  wear  what  you  please — so  the  fashion  is  new; 


48  PLEA  TO  FASHION. 

^ 

But  the  prices  of  these  have  been  ranging  so  high,, 
It  wants  a  small  fortune  these  beauties  to  buy. 
Now  we  ask  that  this  season,  this  once,  if  you  can. 
You'll  manage  affairs  on  a  different  plan. 
Let  the  bonnet  be  everything  charming  and  nice, 
Don't  rob  it  of  anything — more  than  the  price — 

Have  as  many  fine  flowers  as  ever  upon  it, 
And  give  us  a  cheap,  bat  a  love  of  a  bonnet. 
Don't  give  us  front  ringlets  down  over  our  eyes, 
Nor  coronets  soaring  aloft  toward  the  skies, 
Nor  back  curls  so  many,  so  massive  and  long, 
As  to  burden  the  fair  ones  not  overly  strong. 
And  as  for  the  bustles,  the  panniers  and  such, 
We  are  free  to  confess  we  have  never  liked  much ; 

So  high  they've  been  running  for  more  than  a  year, 

That  even  the  newspapers  now  have  grown  dear. 

We  cannot  feel  sorry  to  see  their  decline, 

And  we  beg  you  to  send  nothing  more  in  that  line. 

Nay,  more,  let  us  hope  that  at  least  for  one  year, 

With  no  sham  deformity  we  may  appear 

Don't  give  us  short  dress-waists,  quite  under  the  arm, 

Nor  lengthened  the  same  till  lost  to  all  charm  ; 

Nor  skirts  trailing  more  than  the  width  of  a  street, 
Nor  shortened  to  make  a  display  of  our  feet. 
And  speaking  of  feet,  I  declare  what  is  true, 
That  we  need  a  reform  in  the  shape  of  a  shoe. 
Don't  give  us  a  boot  lacing  quite  to  the  knee, 
Impeding  the  blood  which  should  circulate  free, 
The  lacing  a  tiresome  task  every  day, 
Consuming  our  strength  in  a  frivolous  way. 

Don't  settle  us  down  in  those  little  strips 

Of  leather  and  cloth,  called  slippers  and  slips, 


"PLEA    TO   FASHION.  47 

Made  up  of  a  sole  and  just  enough  toe 
To  be  caught  by  a  buckle,  a  tassel,  or  bow ; 
Wearing  these  and  these  only,  who  is  there  but  knows, 
We  should  have  to  be  dreadfully  careful  of  hose. 
We  may  button  our  shoes  but  the  trouble  with  these, 
They  cannot  be  buttoned  with  swiftness  or  ease, 

And  the  buttons  fly  off,  and  we've  too  much  to  do, 

To  waste  any  time  on  a  buttonless  shoe. 

And  the  Congress — (I  should  like  to  know  if  the  name 

Of  this  once  worthy  shoe  is  really  to  blame), 

Concerning  this  subject  we  might  be  in  doubt, 

Were  it  not  that  the  Congress  is  first  to  give  out ; 

And  we  know  that  in  buying,  though  both  promise  fair, 

We're  sure  to  be  humbugged  by  one  of  the  pair. 

Now  you  must  be  convinced  that  the  saying  is  true, 
We  need  a  reform  in  the  shape  of  a  shoe. 
Remember,  dear  fashion  and  count  it  not  strange, 
There  are  those  not  quite  overstocked  with  small  change, 
Who,  withal,  would  dress  comely  and  not  so  much  worse 
Than  others  who  sport  a  more  plethoric  purse. 
We  weary  of  having  this  taunt  at  us  hurled, 
"It  is  woman's  extravagance  ruins  the  world." 

Men  frown  if  we  don't  dress  and  frown  if  we  do  ; 
And  wonder  to  see  us  lack  anything  new. 
Our  husbands  and  brothers  would  have  us  well  dressed, 
And  we  like  to  please  husbands,  as  well  as  the  rest 
Of  our  gentleman  friends,  and  with  all  the  tirade, 
We  fly  to  headquarters  and  summon  your  aid. 
Now,  why  not  let  calico  have  a  fair  show, 
And  be  called  very  good,  as  it  was  years  ago. 

Why  need  we  in  dress  goods  all  fabrics  discard 

Which  perchance  may  not  sell  for  one  dollar  per  yard? 


48  PLEA   TO  FASHIOK. 

Let  the  patterns  for  making  be  few  at  a  time, 
Arid  these  be  at  least  for  six  months  in  their  prime. 
In  closing,  I  pray  you,  whatever  our  fate, 
Send  something  the  men  cannot  easily  mate ; 
For  you  know  that  whatever  you  conjure  for  us, 
About  it,  some  man  will  of  course  make  a  fuss, 
And  call  us  proud  creatures— (it's  just  like  a  man) — 
Then  follow  the  fashion  as  close  as  he  can. 


BRIGHT  BEYOND. 

A  youthful  wife  was  dying, 

In  her  own  home  so  fair, 
While  parents,  husband,  children, 

Were  gathered  'round  her  there  ; 
And  while  they  weeping,  listened 

For  the  last  whisper  fond, 
"Jesus,"  she  said,  "is  precious ; 

"Yes,  all  is  bright,  beyond." 

O,  that  beyond  !  how  many 

Are  gathering  over  there  ; 
Friend  after  friend  departing, 

In  its  sweet  rest  to  share.. 
And  never  can  be  pictured, 

Not  in  our  brightest  dreams, 
The  glories  of  that  resting  place, 

That  near  and  nearer  seems. 

Sometimes  it  seems  so  near  us, 

\Ve  almost  catch  a  ray 
Of  brightness,  through  the  portals 

That  lead  to  perfect  day. 
Only  the  silent  river, 

Rolls  earth  and  Heaven  between, 
The  "valley  and  the  shadow," 

This  side  the  "living  green." 

This  side  the  tearless  temple, 
Knowing  no  grief  or  sin, 


50  BRIGHT  BEYOND. 

And  where  Christ's  righteousness  adorns, 

All  who  are  ent'ring  in. 
O,  lovely  are  the  homes  of  earth, 

And  some,  so  full  of  bliss, 
We  venture  to  compare  them 

With  fairer  worlds  than  this. 

But  none  of  them  so  favored 

That  Death  may  not  invade, 
And  where  the  sunshine's  brightest, 

He  sends  the  deepest  shade. 
One  of  these  homes  so  lovely, 

Long  free  from  death's  alarm, 
He  finds  at  last,  and  choosing, 

Bears  off  its  sweetest  charm. 

He  leaves  a  loving  husband 

In  deepest  grief  to  bow, 
And  children,  sweet  and  loving, 

Motherless,  written  now. 
Brothers  without  a  sister, 

And  parents  crushed  and  sad, 
Mourning  an  only  daughter, 

Whose  love  their  life  made  glad. 

For  He  with  love  excelling 

All  human  love  so  fond, 
Has  bidden  her  "up  higher," 

Up  to  the  Bright  Beyond. 
For  them,  on  all  things  earthly, 

A  darkling  shadow  lies, 
Xot  here  to  be  uplifted, 

Not  here  to  fully  rise. 

Yet,  Christ  their  certain  refuge, 
Firm  in  His  strength  they  stand, 


BRIGHT  BEYOND. 

The  "shadow  of  a  mighty  rock, 

Within  a  weary  land." 
He  comes  to  heal  their  sorrows, 

Nor  leaves  them  to  despond, 
He'll  gently  guide  their  footsteps 

Safe  to  the  Bright  Beyond. 

How  wise,  so  to  be  living, 

Ready,  each  passing  day, 
Ready,  these  words  so  precious, 

With  confidence  to  say. 
Shall  you  and  I,  dear  reader, 

With  dying  breath  respond, 
To  some  one's  latest  question, 

That  all  is  bright  beyond  ? 

It  recks  not  when  we're  bidden, 

Upon  the  land  or  sea, 
Alone,  with  friends,  or  strangers, 

Or  wheresoe'er  are  we, 
If  we  our  Lord  obeying, 

Christ's  righteousness  have  donned, 
His  presence  through  the  valley 

Will  make  all  bright  beyond. 


THE  YOUNG  VOLUNTEER. 

[Alfred  Steele  Handy,  of  Co.  B.,  2d  Regt..  Mich.  Vols.  Killed  at  Fair  Oaks.  Aged 
17  years.  1*he  young  volunteer,  but  a  short  time  in  the  service,  had  expressed  his 
eagerness  to  see  and  take  part  in  a  battle.  His  brother,  passing  just  after  the  engage 
ment  opened,  hailed  him,  asking  if  a  battle  was  anything  as  he  expected.  Steele  only 
turned  and  smiled  upon  his  brother  in  answer,  and  a  few  moments  later  word  came 
of  his  death.] 

In  that  sunny  land,  Virginia, 

Where  repose  so  many  brave, 
'Neath  an  oak  tree's  spreading  branches, 

There's  a  soldier's  lonely  grave. 

There  our  noble  Steele  is  sleeping, 
Closed  in  death  his  radiant  eyes, 

Gone  from  us,  O,  may  we  meet  him, 
In  that  home  beyond  the  skies. 

Cannon's  roar  or  musket's  rattle 

Ne'er  shall  greet  his  ear  again, 
For  the  fiery  Fair  Oaks'  battle 

Closed  for  him  the  war's  campaign. 

Friends  at  home,  who  dearly  loved  him, 
Could  not  make  his  last  cold  bed  ; 

Could  not  gaze  upon  his  features 
When  they  learn'd  that  he  was  dead. 

May  not  come  to  weep  and  linger, 
Where  they've  laid  him  down  to  rest, 

But  a  patriot  mother  mourns  him, 
With  an  ever  sorrowing  breast. 

Sisters  too,  whose  hearts  were  gladdened 
By  his  smile  so  kind  and  sweet, 

Now,  with  life  so  strangely  saddened, 
Wait  in  vain  his  form  to  greet. 


THE  YOUNG  VOLUNTEER. 

And  the  Captain,  his  dear  brother, 
On  his  memory  loves  to  dwell, 

How  Steele  smiled  amid  the  conflict, 
Smiled  on  him  his  last  farewell. 

Loving  friends  will  not  forget  him, 
Though  his  tomb  they  may  not  seek  ; 

Tenderly  they  will  regret  him, 
And  his  praises  oft  shall  speak. 

Sleep,  to-day,  O,  loved  and  lost  one, 
'Neath  the  friendly  old  oak  tree  ; 

Requiems  of  the  evening  zephyrs, 
Mingle  with  our  tears  for  thee. 


GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

But  stay,  good  wife,  a  moment  stay, 

And  list  what  I  would  say ; 
The  lover  should  a  hearing  have, 

Upon  his  wedding  day  I 
And  this  our  wedding  morn  is,  wife, 

The  golden  one  'tis  known, 
For  since  our  youthful  bridal  day 

'Full  fifty  years'  have  flown. 

Ah  !  on  what  rapid  wing  flown  byr 

These  fifty  freighted  years  ! 
And  yet,  in  looking  o'er  them  now, 

Their  measured  length  appears ; 
Yes,  since  we  sat  in  our  own  room, 

When  guests  had  gone  away, 
We  two,  a  happy  bridal  pair, 

'Tis  fifty  years  to-day  ! 

We  knew,  life  granted,  that  the  trip 

Was  long,  yet  for  love's  sake, 
We  wisely  thought,  Hfe's  journey  through, 

Together  we  might  take. 
And  with  its  toils  and  burdens  too, 

Each  year  has  brought  its  May, 
The  sunshine  of  God's  love  been  ours, 

Down  to  this  golden  day. 

Yes,  every  year  has  had  its  May, 
And  every  cloud  of  care 


GOLDEN  WEDDING.  55 

Or  grief  that  we  have  ever  met, 

Has  had  its  lining  fair. 
Your  smiles  have  heightened  every  joy, 

And  lessened  all  my  fears, 
And,  best  of  all,  your  faithful  love 

I've  had  these  fifty  years. 

Your' hands  have  helped  me  build  this  home, 

We  sought  for  our  repose, 
And  helped  the  wilderness  that  was, 

To  blossom  as  the  rose. 
For  while  we  have  been  living  on, 

And  growing  old,  'tis  true, 
The  country,  beautiful  when  wild, 

Is  now  no  longer  new. 

Around  us  fruitful  orchards  stand, 

And  vineyards  on  each  side, 
And  pleasant  homes  before  us  lie, 

E'en  down  to  Erie's  tide. 
The  locomotive,  grand  and  swift, 

Before  its  mighty  train, 
Full-viewed  from  out  our  farmhouse  door, 

Sweeps  o'er  our  orchard  plain. 

We  know  that  of  the  happy  nine 

That  gathered  round  our  hearth, 
And  were  so  much  of  life  to  us, 

Three  are  no  more  of  earth. 
Our  oldest  early  found  a  home, 

Then  died,  away  out  West ; 
Our  youngest,  in  the  churchyard  near, 

For  years  has  been  at  rest. 

And  one  to  Colorado's  hills, 
By  roving  fancies  led, 


56  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

Thought  there  to  find  the  shining  gold, 
And  found  his  grave  instead. 

But  when  our  earthly  props  must  fail, 
Still  closer  let  us  cling 

Unto  each  other's  love  and  faith, 
And  trust  what  Heaven  may  bring. 

Blessed  are  they,  the  record  reads, 

That  His  commandments  do, 
They  shall  have  right  to  life's  fair  tree, 

And  pearly  gates  pass  through, 
Into  that  city  where  no  more 

In  wedded  bonds  we  're  given, 
But  through  the  blissful  ages  are 

As  angel  ones  in  Heaven. 


THE  RAGE  FOR  THE  RINK. 

The  rink  !   the  rink  !   the  wonderful  rink  ! 
It  flurries  one's  heart  and  one's  brain  to  think, 
Of  the  fun  and  the  frolic,  the  glitter  and  glare, 
That  the  old  and  the  young  are  feasting  on  there. 

The  town  is  astir!  and  the  people,  so  gay, 

Unheeding  the  hours  they  are  whiling  away, 

Too  eager  to  pause,  and  too  crazy  to  think, 

They  are  spending  their   strength  and   squand'ring 

their  chink, 
Half  wild  in  their  joy,  at  the  wonderful  rink  ! 

When  the  skaters  en  maske,  in  outlandish  array, 
And  the  band,  in  the  torchlight,  beginning  to  play, 
("Too  lovely  for  anything !"  as  the  girls  say) — 
When  even  beholders  bewilderingly  gaze, 
Till  seemingly  whirled  in  the  same  giddy  maze, 
All  other  attractions  mere  nothings  must  sink, 
Only  this  fount  of  pleasure  allures  them  to  drink, 
No,  there's  nothing  in  town  but  the  wonderful  rink. 

Once,  I  a  masker  was,  too,  but  I  fell ; 
Fell  like  a  groceryman's  basket — pell-mell ; 
My  mask  flying  off,  and  my  arms  flying  high, 
I  went  without  murmuring  a  tender  good-bye. 

Yes,  I'd  fallen  before,  but  then,  to  fall  there ! 
My  head  on  the  ice,  but  my  mask  in  the  air, 
Unmasked  !  before  those  who  so  cruelly  stare  ; 
Like  one  toppled  over  the  brink  of  despair— 
'Twould  be  better,  I  thought,  to  be  even  nowhere. 


58  THE  RAGE  FOB  THE  RINK. 

Fainting,  freezing,  sighing,  trying  in  vain,  and  alone, 
To  be  patient  and  brave,  and  smother  a  groan, 
Too  angry  to  weep,  and  too  frightened  to  think, 
They  bore  me  away  from  the  wonderful  rink. 
And  with  badly  sprained  ankle,  and  badly  bruised 

head, 
I  am  resting  at  last  on  my  own  little  bed. 

'Tis  terrible  !  being  shut  up  in  this  state, 

When  I  had  such  high  hopes  of  learning  to  skate ; 

But  the  doctor — (God  bless  him) — with  fervor  declares 

That  a  week  or  two  more  will  suffice  for  repairs. 

So  I'm  counting  the  days  and  the  hours  I  must  wait, 

Submitting,  although  with  bad  grace,  to  my  fate, 

And  painting  the  pleasures  by  da}r  and  by  night, 

Which  I  know  I  shall  have  when  my  ankle's  all  right 

How  it  strengthens  my  spirits  when  ready  to  sink  ; 

How  it  softens  the    pain  from    which  erst  I  should 

shrink  ; 

Soon  again  with  the  skaters  !     How  blissful  to  think  ! 
On  the  wonderful  ice,  at  the  wonderful  rink ! 


THE  FORCED  RECRUIT. 

[Written  during  the  Rebellion.] 

The  afternoon  departing  sun  shone  'round  the  farmhouse 
old, 

And  fell  on  the  cornfield's  harvest  ears,  touching  them 
all  with  gold. 

A  man  was  there,  with  kind,  blue  eyes,  and  hair  of  chest 
nut  brown, 

His  handsome  face,  the  home  of  smiles,  now  shaded 
by  a  frown. 

And  though  Virginia  was  his  home,  no  rebel  heart  had  he, 

Dearly  he  loved  his  country's  flag,  the  old  flag  of  the  free. 

He  had  almost  filled  the  basket  with  yellow  corn — but 

hark  ! 
There  was  a  distant  rifle-shot — and  still  his  brow  grew 

dark. 
They  were  drafting  for  the  army,  and  he  might  have  to 

go, 

To  fight  his  brother  patriots;  no  enemy  or  foe. 
How  hard  it  seemed  to  that  proud  heart,  there  in  Seces- 

cia's  land, 
How  longed  he  but  to  volunteer,  in  that  bold  Federal 

band. 

'Twas  hard  to  feel  the  dear  old  flag  so  far  away  unfurled, 
Where  he  might  never  see  it  wave.     Had  God  forgotten 

the  world  ? 
Then,  through  the  waving,  tasseled  corn,  there  beamed 

a  smiling  face, 


60  THE  FORCED  RECRUIT. 

With  azure  eyes,  and  sunny  curls,  and  form  of  childish 

grace ; 
His  darling    Ma}-,   his    promised    bride,  so  happy  and 

bright,  the  while, 

Her  glad  face  banished  the  heavy  frown,  causing  his  own 
to  smile. 

He  bade  her  sit  beside  him,  on  a  large  stone  lying  there, 
And  the  soft  south  breeze  and  sunset  light  played  with 

her  curling  hair. 

And  calmly,  as  he  might,  he  told  her  they  must  part ; 
And  soon,  he  feared ;  this*  was  the  grief  that  burdened 

now  his  heart. 

And  were  it  hot  for  you,  dear  one,  I'd  fly  without  delay, 
To  the  Union  lines,  the  stars  and  stripes,  I'd  go  this  very 

day. 

I'd  brave  all  dangers  gladly,   these   traitorous   men   to 

leave, 
But  I  could  not  take  you  with  me,  nor  leave  you,  alone 

to  grieve. 
"If  troubles,  as  they  must,  shall  come,  all,  patiently  I'll 

bear," 
He  said,  "for   your    sake,  only  yours,"  smoothing  her 

sunny  hair. 
"But  what  if  you  are  drafted,  George?"  she  said,  with 

tearful  eye ; 
"I  will  never  shoot  a  Federal ;  no  !  sooner  I  would  die. 

I  envy  the  brave  Northern  boys,  who  for  the  right  can 

fall, 
I  curse  these  wicked  rebels !   though    men   themselves 

they  call." 
,  May  whispered  words  of  comfort  and   hopefulness,  but 

brief, 
In  vain  were  all  her  efforts  to  hide  her  own  deep  grief. 


THE  FORCED  RECRUIT.  61 

With  silent  lips  and  heavy  hearts,  they  walked  to  the 

farmhouse  low, 
A  cloud  was  over  their  spirit's   sky,   hiding   the   sun's 

bright  glow. 

Alas  !  the  evil  hour  they  dread,  is  coming,  all  too  fast ; 

One  meeting  more  is  left  for  them,  one  parting,  now, 
the  last. 

A  few  days  more  have  come  and  gone  of  autumn  sun 
shine  bright, 

And  George  is  hastening  home  alone,  alone  in  the  eve 
ning  light. 

He  knows  that  he  is  drafted  ;  to-morrow  he  must  go ; 

To-morrow  leave  his  home  and  May,  to  join  his  coun 
try's  foe. 

Was  there  no  help  for  him  from  God,  to  whom  he  ever 

prayed  ? 
God  of  his  childhood's  love  and  trust,  would  He    not 

surely  aid  ? 
Should  freedom's  gallant  followers  grope  after  light  in 

vain  ? 

He  gazed  upon  the  quiet  stars  with  weary,  heartfelt  pain. 
To  make  men  fight  'gainst  freedom's  cause,  could  this 

be  just  and  right? 
Must  he,  without  one  struggle,  yield  to  the  conqueror's 

might  ? 

Just  then  he  heard  a  low,  soft  voice  call  him  across  the 

way, 

And  looking  up,  he  there  beheld  his  faithful  little  May. 
Her  well  known  voice  is  altered  now,  mournfully  low  and 

sweet, 
As   by    her    home-gate   ling'ring    her   gallant   love    to 

greet. 
"Nay,  speak  it  not,  she  sadly  said,  "father  has  told  me  all, 


62  THE  FORCED  RECRUIT. 

Our  fears  were  right ;  too  soon,  alas  !  the  dreaded  storm 
must  fall." 

"0  !  must  I  spurn  the  dear  old  flag,  our  own  red,  white 

and  blue  ?" 
"Go  ;  trust  in  childhood's  God,"  she  said,  "and  he  will 

care  for  you." 
"But  would  you  have  me  fight,  dear  one,  'gainst  freedom 

in  the  strife? 

Turn  traitor  to  my  country  ?  just  to  preserve  my  life?" 
May  hesitates  ;  what  shall  she  say  ?     Her  heart  is  sorely 

tried. 
And  what  was  liberty  to  her,  if  he,  her  lover  died  ? 

He  saw  the  struggle,  took  the  flag,  a  silken  one  she'd 

given, 
The  clear,  bright  stripes  and  tiny  stars  shone  in  the  light 

of  Heaven. 
"Shall  I  fight  against  this  emblem?  this  dear  flag  of  the 

free  ?" 
"No,  no  !"  she  answered  quickly,  then,  "not  that,  not  that, 

for  me." 

"God  bless  you,  little  brave  one,  just  as  I  knew  you'd  say, 
I'll   go,   but  fly   ere  battle,   to  the  Yankees    make  my 

way." 

"And  if  you  fail  ?"  said  May,  again,  as  if  the  worst  to 

know, 

"I  am  dying  for  my  country,  then,  yes,  God  will  call  it  so." 
May  took  a  little  Bible,  that  long  had  been  her  own, 
And  opening  it,  the  starlight  upon  its  pages  shone. 
Then  she  placed  the  silken  flag  within  and  bade  him 

keep  it  there, 
The  stars  of  hope   were   pointing  to   this,  her  parting 

prayer: 


THE  FORCED  RECRUIT.  63 

George  took  the  book  and  read  therein,  by  the  dim  feeble 
rays, 

"He  shall  give  His  angels  charge  o'er  thee,  to  keep  thee 
in  thy  ways." 

The  last  good-bye  is  spoken  ;  given  the  last  kind  word, 

Never  again,  the  one  loved  voice,  to  be  by  either  heard. 

The  gloom  of  midnight's  mantle  falls  o'er  the  silent  camp  ; 

No  sound  upon  the  cool,  night  air  save  that  of  the  sen 
tinel's  tramp. 

The  eve  of  a  coming  battle  ;  and  thousands  sleeping 

now, 
Will  lie  asleep  on  the    morrow  with   the  death  damp 

on  their  brow. 
And  where  is  George?     Not  sleeping  ;  there  is  for  him 

no  sleep  ; 
He   sits  alone  with    his   bitter    thoughts,   his   anxious 

watch  to  keep. 

To  enter  the  coming  battle,  and  orders  disobey, 
Would  be  but  certain  death  he  knew ;  escape,  the   only 

way. 

By  daylight  it  was  useless  the  dangerous  plan  to  try  ; 
The   rebel    pickets    guarded    him    with  ever  watchful 

eye. 
Full  well  they  knew  no  uniform,  though  rebel  marks  it 

bore, 
Could  change  the  loyal  beating  of  the  heart  it  covered 

o'er. 

George  listened  to  the  sound  of  the  sentry's  heavy  tramp, 
Then  stealthily  he  made  his  way  along  the  silent  camp. 

Down  to  a  dark  and  dismal  swamp,  he  eager  and  tremb 
ling  went, 

A  dread,  forbidding  place  it  was,  where  guards  were  sel 
dom  sent. 


6*  THE  FORCED  RECRUIT. 

And,  wrapped  in  misty  darkness,  he  reached  the  dismal 

ground, 

He  saw  no  savage  sentinel,  he  heard  no  warning  sound; 
The  brave  boys   of  the   Potomac,  almost,  he  seemed  to 

see, 
Could  see  himself  among  them — he  felt  already  free. 

But  ah  !  he  is  discovered  !     "Halt!"  fell   heavily  on  his 

ear, 

And  breathlessly  he  waited  the  click  of  the  gun  to  hear 
Should  he  go  on,  and  heed  it  not?    'Twas  dark,  the  shot 

might  miss  ! 
Yes ;  on,  to  freedom  and  the  right,  he  would  not  turn 

for  this. 
There   was  a  flash — a   rifle-shot— the   martyr's   funeral 

knell, 
And  the  sentinel  turned  away  with  an  oath,  as  the  dying 

patriot  fell. 

O,  wearily  the  night  wore  on,  and  wearily  passed  away ; 

Alone,  in  the  damp  grass,  bathed  with  blood,  the  help 
less  suff'rer  lay. 

He  thought  of  the  far-off  Sabbath  bells,  and  heard  their 
silvery  chime, 

And  said  his  prayers  at  his  mother's  knee,  as  in  the 
olden  time. 

And  vaguely  he  would  picture,  too,  the  sun-bright  curls 
of  May ; 

His  heart  too  chill  to  feel  the  warmth  of  the  one  that 
near  it  lay. 

He  had  never  killed  a  Federal,  he  was  glad  he  had  kept 

his  oath, 
He  sought  his  Bible  and  tiny  flag,  and  feebly  clasped 

them  both. 


THE  FORCED  RECRUIT.  65 

He  breathed  a  prayer  for  freedom's  cause,  that   victory 

might  betide, 
Then,  with  a  last  prayer  breathed  for  May,  the  patriot 

martyr  died. 
The  low  wind  moaned  through  the  dismal  swamp,  and 

with  tender  and  light  caress, 
Touched  lightly  the  pale  and  marble  brow,  as  a  mother's 

kiss  to  bless. 

Over  his  form  the  tall  grass  bowed,  his  only  funeral  pall, 
And  a  sobbing  rain  bathed  the  manly  cheek,  the  only 

tears  to  fall. 

The  setting  sun  is  lingering  half  sadly  round  the  place, 
Where  May  is  watching  silently,  with  pale  and  anxious 

face. 
Her  cheek  is  blanched  with  sorrow,  and  her  eyes  are 

dimmed  with  tears, 

Her  heart  is  almost  breaking  with  agonizing  fears. 
To  every  evening's  stillness,  to  every  morning's  dawn, 
She  pleads  in  vain  for  knowledge,  till  every  hope  is  gone. 

No  one  to  tell  her  that  he  lives,  to  her  'tis  all  unsaid  ; 
Xo  voice  from  the  floating  clouds  descends  to  whisper 

"he  is  dead  ;" 

To  all  her  earnest  pleadings  the  bright  blue  sky  is  deaf, 
And  the  childish  face  is  written  with   the   mystery   of 

grief. 

"Only  a  Yankee  deserter,"  the  rebel  sentry  said, 
"And  the  world  is  better  off  that  the  Lincolnite  is  dead." 


WHAT  SHE  HAD  ON. 

[Summer  of  1874.] 

She  was  young,  she  was  fair  ; 

And  her  beautiful  hair 
Wandered  carelessly  over  her  shoulders, 

While  the  ruff  neath  her  chin, 

So  airy  and  thin, 
Was  a  marvel  to  all  new  beholders. 

Her  hat,  it  was  high, 

And  the  part  next  the  sky 
Half  buried  in  feathers  and  laces, 

And  the  brim — it  was  wide, 

Turned  up  on  one  side, 
Away  from  the  fairest  of  faces. 

A  sword  somewhere  there, 

And  an  arrow — beware  ! 
As  if  wandering  from  Cupid's  own  quiver, 

And  the  glory  of  that 

Lit  up  the  whole  hat, 
As  the, moonlight  illumines  the  river. 

And  caught  up  by  these, 
(As  well  as  the  breeze,) 
Was  a  veil,  in  such  charming  disorder, 

If  I  were  a  bird, 

I  would  not  be  deterred 
From  building  my  nest  in  its  border. 

But  this  was  not  all  ; 
A  piece  called  a  "fall," 


WHAT  SHE  HAD  ON.  67 

Of  lace  with  her  hair  was  entwining, 

And  the  jets  scattered  there, 

In  the  lace — not  the  hair — 
Like  stars  in  the  heavens  were  shining. 

Her  dress,  it  was  green, 

And  the  surface  between 
The  waist  and  the  part  that  was  trailing, 

Was  covered,  almost, 

With  puffs,  such  a  host, 
In  a  style  which  they  call  the  prevailing ; 

But  this  not  enough, 

Each  identical  puff  , 

Had  bows  'long  the  lower  edge  skimming, 

Till  a  lawyer,  I  vow, 

Would  scarcely  know  how 
To  decide  'twixt  the  dress  and  the  trimming. 

Would  I  tell  how  'twas  made  ? 

I  should  fail,  I'm  afraid, 
For  the  names  are  so  strange  and  so  many ; 

But  I  heard  some  one  say 

It  was  called  a  "polenay," 
And  I  think  that  as  fitting  as  any. 

But  I  might  as  well  say, 

After  all  this  array 
Of  fluting,  and  puffing  and  stitching, 

It  was  looped  up  behind, 

In  a  way  that  inclined 
The  whole  suit  to  seem  quite  bewitching. 

And  above  this  was  placed, 
A  sack,  or  a  waist, 
A  Spanish,  or  some  foreign  jacket, 
Bare  of  neck,  bare  of  sleeves, 


68  WHAT  SHE  HAD  ON. 

As  a  tree  without  leaves, 
And  suggested  a  toy  on  a  bracket. 

And  the  scarf  that  she  wore 
Her  slight  form  fell  o'er — 

Like  a  cloud  of  the  soft  summer  twilight; 
It  was  stayed  with  a  "charm," 
And  dropped  under  one  arm, 

As  sunbeams  fall  in  through  a  skylight. 

Such  a  buckle  ! — and  belt ! 
They  were  needed  I  felt, 
To  keep  her  and  her  treasures  together ; 
Her  fan  from  this  swung, 
And  an  umbrella  hung, 
To  keep  off  the  sun,  and  damp  weather. 

At  my  comments  on  these 
You  may  laugh,  if  you  please, 

Or  say  from  the  truth  I  would  vary, 
But  that  fan — (it  is  said,) 
Would  cover — when  spread, 

An  emigrant  train  on  the  prairie. 

Now,  what  mustn't  be  missed, 

She  wore  at  each  wrist, 
Fairy  charm-bells  that  gave  a  soft  jingle, 

Till  I  felt  I  could  weep— 

Or  be  soothed  down  to  sleep, 
As  I  thought  of  the  rain  on  the  shingle. 

I  considered  her  youth  ; 

And  wondered  in  truth, 
If  aught  in  the  world  were  denied  her ; 

But  my  eyes  opened  wide 

When  I  suddenly  spied 
A  something,  now  swinging  beside  her. 


WHAT  SHE  HAD  Otf.  6& 

It  was  "got  up"  in  black, 

This  wee  sachel,  or  sack, 
And  it  shone  like  the  eyes  of  the  maiden  ^ 

How  I  longed  just  to  know 

If  'twas  placed  there  on  "show," 
Or  writh  candies  and  peanuts  was  laden, 

I  should  never  have  guessed, 

And  I  called  it  a  jest 
When  my  "Ma"  said — (I  scarce  could  believe  her), 

But  she  said  it  was  true, 

And  she  knew  that  she  knew, 
It  was  only  a  'kerchief  receiver. 

As  homeward  I  strayed 

I  thought  of  that  maid, 
Of  her  dress  and  the  wondrous  "attaches", 

And  I  murmured — Ah  !  me  ! 

For  my  life  I  can't  see 
How  poor  men  can  ever  "make  matches  I" 

Such  rare  suits  I  knew, 

She  must  sport  not  a  few, 
And  my  fortune,  alas !  could  not  buy  her, 

Yet  I  sighed,  "As  I  live  ! 

What  would  I  not  give 
If  in  Hymen's  knot  I  could  but  tie  her." 

I  thought  of  that  hat, 

The  bells,  and  all  that, 
And  fancied  I  heard  their  soft  jingle, 

And  sadly  I  wrept ; 

Yes,  hours  ere  I  slept, 
Because  I  had  sworn  to  live  single. 


HER  FATHER, 

He  was  old,  he  was  poor ; 

And  his  face,  to  be  sure, 
Might  never  have  charmed  the  beholderr 

But  if  this  were  so, 

'Twas  years  long  ago, 
Ere  Time  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

He  was  old,  he  was  thin, 
From  his  brow  to  his  chin, 

The  wrinkles  of  age  on  each  feature; 
And  so  hollow  each  cheek, 
Lips  thoughtless  might  speak, 

To  call  him  a  "horrid  old  creature  !" 

He  was  old,  he  was  gray, 

And  his  dress,  I  may  say, 
With  the  dress  of  the  times  not  in  keeping ; 

Best  of  all  was  his  hat, 

And  even  from  that 
The  dust  of  the  years  needed  sweeping. 

His  threadbare  old  coat, 

Scarce  worthy  of  note, 
And  a  vest  with  the  former  comparing, 

Both  minus  the  hue 

I  suppose  they  once  knew, 
Must  have  been  for  a  life-time  in  wearing. 

He  was  old,  he  was  poor ; 
Too  old  to  endure 
The  burdens  he  once  lightly  carried, 


HER  FATHER.  71 

His  footsteps  were  slow, 
And  he  seemed  loth  to  go, 
And  now  and  then  faltered  or  tarried. 

Yet  for  all  this  I  ween, 

There  was  that  in  his  mien, 
Respect,  even  rev'rence  commanding ; 

And  I  saw  in  his  look 

What  is  called  in  the  Book, 
The  peace  "passing  all  understanding." 

In  his  heart  was  the  love 

Of  the  Father  above  ; 
And  for  this  I  alone  could  revere  him, 

For  he  stooped  down  and  smiled 

On  a  dear  little  child, 
That  wandered  in  innocence  near  him. 

Then  he  asked  her  her  name, 

And  repeating  the  same, 
Laid  his  hand  in  the  gentlest  caressing 

On  the  sweet,  baby  face, 

But  his  fond  smile  gave  place 
To  a  look  only  sorrow  expressing. 

And  I  wondered  in  vain 

What  it  was — the  heart-pain 
That  suddenly  banished  his  pleasure? 

Yet  no  answer  I  gave 

Only  this — that  the  grave 
Had  taken  from  him  such  a  treasure. 

But  I  saw  him  once  more, 

When,  the  day's  labor  o'er, 

He  homeward  walked,  even  more  slowly 

Than  he  had  in  the  morn, 


•88  HER  FATHER. 

And  he  seemed  more  forlorn 
And  his  manner  more  humble  and  lowly. 

And  he  met  on  the  way, 

At  the  close  of  the  day, 
A  maiden,  with  other  maids  walking, 

In  a  wonderful  dress 

You  have  heard  of  I  guess, 
And  merrily  laughing  and  talking. 

But  this  beauty  so  proud, 

Only  frowned  when  he  bowed, 
The  cause  of  which  gave  me  much  bother ; 

But  my  eyes  opened  wide 

When  a  friend  at  my  side, 
Said  he  was  the  lady's  own  father ! 

Now,  all  was  made  clear, 
His  grief  and  his  tear 

When  he  blessed  the  sweet  child  of  the  morning, 
Twere  better,  I  said, 
.  His  darling  were  dead, 
Than  he  be  her  object  of  scorning. 

I  thought  of  the  maid 

In  fine  toilet  arrayed, 
All  of  which  his  hard  earnings  had  bought  her, 

And  I  whispered,  ah  !  me  ! 

What  a  joy  it  must  be, 
To  care  for  and  bless  such  a  daughter  ! 

And  thought  turned  to  prayer 

That  Heaven's  kind  care 
Might  yet  better  blessings  bequeath  him  ; 

And  bereft  of  life's  woes, 

He  might  pass  to  its  close, 
With  "the  arms  everlasting"  beneath  him. 


THE  IMMORTAL. 

"There  are  tones  that  will  haunt  us  forever ; 

Though  lonely  our  way  o'er  mountain  and  sea, 
There  are  looks  that  will  pass  from  us  never, 
Till  memory  ceases  to  be." 

There  are  smiles  that  will  live,  and  grow  brighter, 
As  thought  brings  them  back  to  our  view, 

Kind  deeds  that  have  power  to  make  lighter 
Life's  burdens  the  whole  journey  through. 

There  are  words,  (O,  that  more  such  were  spoken), 
Heard  again  in  their  own  native  voice, 

Matters  not  if  the  accents  were  broken, 
They  bid  us  in  sorrow  rejoice. 

There  are  tears,  like  crystallines  gleaming, 
In  the  eyes  of  the  loved  we  have  known, 

In  our  own  are  their  counterparts  beaming, 
Because  we  have  wept  not  alone. 

There  are  songs  whose  deep  music  still  swelling, 

Is  borne  to  the  apt,  listening  ear, 
Giving  joy  that's  beyond  our  poor  telling, 

Only  known  to  the  blessed  who  hear. 

There  are  prayers  like  sweet  incense  ascending, 
Even  murmurs  the  faintest  expressed, 

Such  strength  in  our  weak  moments  lending, 
Such  comfort,  such  peace,  and  such  rest. 


SUNSHINE  AGAIN. 

There's  hanging  a  picture  on  the  wall, 
Where  often  and  often  my  pleased  eyes  fall, 
With  a  lingering  gaze  that  fain  would  stay, 
Still  wandering  back  when  they've  turned  away. 

A  stubbled  field  and  a  shock  of  grain  ; 

Above,  dark  clouds  that  have  opened  rain  ; 

Low,  straggling  fence  that  long  hath  stood, 

And  over  beyond  it  a  bit  of  wood. 

And  down  by  the  side  of  the  shock  of  wheat, 

With  heads  uncovered  and  bare,  brown  feet, 

Lo,  three  dear  children,  side  by  side, 

Who  have  crept  in  there  from  the  storm  to  hide. 

A  safe  and  a  sure  retreat  they've  found, 

By  the  golden  grain  upright  and  bound. 

This  is  the  picture — (pardon  my  pen) — 

And  the  name  of  the  piece  is,  "Sunshine  Again." 

Two  of  the  trio  are  sisters  fond  ; 
A  bright  brunette  and  a  dimpled  blonde. 
While  snugly  nestled  the  two  between, 
The  chubby  form  of  a  boy  is  seen ; 
The  roguish  smiles  on  whose  face  declare 
There  is  seldom  aught  but  the  sunshine  there, 
And  showing  the  thought  of  his  heart  to  be : 
"My  sisters  good  will  take  care  of  me." 
Brave  little  ones — all  of  them  under  ten — 
They  are  patiently  waiting  for  sunshine  again. 

The  elder  maiden,  so  noble  browed, 

With  eyes  as  dark  as  the  sable  cloud, 

Looks  heavenward  now,  with  questioning  eye, 


SUNSHINE  AGAIN.  75 

To  know  if  the  storm  has  all  gone  by. 

And,  fearing  but  transient  may  be  the*  calm, 

Her  upraised  hand,  with  its  open  palm, 

Is  waiting  the  veriest  drop  of  rain 

Which  shall  bid  them  stay  by  the  gathered  grain. 

Perhaps  to  the  harvest  they  came  to  glean  : 
To  pick  up  the  handfuls  too  small  and  mean 
For  the  busy  laborers  hurrying  through, 
To  the  fields  beyond  that  were  waiting  too. 
Such  a  treasure  of  these  the  younger  holds, 
That  the  straws  peep  forth  from  her  apron  folds. 
Perhaps  to  the  reapers  a  lunch  they  brought, 
And  so  by  the  storm  surprised  and  caught; 
Or,  maybe  from  school  only  just  turned  out, 
And  are  crossing  the  fields  for  a  nearer  route 
To  the  distant  home  they  had  hoped  to  gain 
Just  a  little  ahead  of  the  driving  rain. 

And  I  look  at  the  threatening  clouds  o'erhead, 
Filling  ever  the  heart  of  a  child  with  dread, 
And  no  visible  reason  for  hope  or  joy, 
(Except  in  the  smiles  of  the  happy  boy) — 
Till  some  one  I  almost  dare  to  blame, 
For  giving  the  picture  too  bright  a  name. 

But  chiefest  to  me  of  the  picture's  charm, 
That  calm,  child-watcher — with  lifted  arm, 
Who  trusts  e'er  the  skies  are  beginning  to  clear, 
That  the  glorious  sunshine  is  drawing  near. 
And  herein  a  lesson  to  me  is  read : 
When  life-clouds  thicken  above  my  head, 
And  the  rudest  lodge  by  the  roughest  field, 
Is  the  best  that  the  earth  for  the  hour  may  yield, 
Through  wildest  tempest  I  still  may  ken, 
The  sunshine  of  heaven  will  come  again. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

Beyond  the  glorious  western  hills, 
Beyond  the  grand  old  mountains, 

Where  strange  bright  birds  their  music  blend 
With  softly  murmuring  fountains, 

Lies  one  who  from  his  gentle  sleep, 

Their  songs  woo  not  to  waking, 
Far  from  his  boyhood's  happy  home, 

And  hearts  so  near  to  breaking. 

Asleep ;  but  not  in  bivouac  rude, 

Or  camp  beside  the  river, 
Securely  in  his  blanket  wrapt, 

Dreaming  of  distant  giver ; 

Asleep ;  but  not  in  hammock  couch, 
Its  light  folds  round  him  clinging, 

But  "low,  green  tent,  whose  curtain,  close, 
Is  never  outward  swinging." 

Beyond  Chautauqua's  pleasant  hills, 

Beyond  her  blue  lake's  border, 
Where  blossoming  groves  look  up  to  heaven, 

How  beautiful  the  order ! — 

His  childhood's  joyous  years  were  passed  ; 

And  here,  in  halls  of  learning, 
Early  he  won  the  victor's  wreath, 

His  laurels  richly  earning. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  77 

A  few  brief  months  ;  winter's  mild  reign, 

And  springtime  scarcely  over, 
And  Death,  not  health,  in  his  embrace, 

Held  the  young  student  rover. 

Helpless,  alone ;  no  loved  one  nigh, 

To  hold  the  hand  when  dying, 
No  one  to  whisper  fond  farewells, 

Or  catch  the  faint  replying. 

Gathered  his  wealth  of  mountain  gems, 

And  penned  the  last  home  letter, 
No  white-winged  message  earth-bound  leaves 

The  Land  we  call  "The  Better." 

Beyond  this  vexed  and  fettered  life, 

Where  sorrow's  darts  assail  us, 
Beyond  the  clouded  river's  brink, 

And  shadowy  mists  that  veil  us, 

Upward  the  eager  student  steps, 

A  new  promotion  given, 
Only  first  gone  to  learn  the  lore 

And  tread  the  hills  of  Heaven. 

Guard  well  the  precious  dust,  proud  hills, 
And  sing,  bright  birds,  above  him  ; 

And  crystal  fountains  give  your  tears, 
For  aching  hearts  that  love  him. 


SONG  OF  WELCOME. 

[Sung  at  the  reception  given  Kev.  H.  H.  Leamy,  of  the  Warren,  (Pa.)  Baptist   Churcb, 
January.  1879.] 

Welcome  !  welcome  !  worthy  steward, 

Servant  of  the  Lord, 
You  and  yours,  a  joyous  welcome, 

Gladly  we  accord. 
Chwus. : — Hail !  and  welcome  to  this  vineyard, 

Servant  of  the  Lord, 
One  and  all  a  joyous  welcome, 

Sing  with  glad  accord. 

Oft  we've  prayed  Jehovah's  blessing 

On  our  feeble  band, 
Prayed  for  patience  till  the  leading 

Of  His  guiding  hand. 

Prayed  we  for  an  under-shepherd, 

Worthy,  kind  and  strong  ; 
And  as  such,  we  give  you  welcome 

With  our  greeting  song. 

Here  no  costly  temple  waited 

For  your  coining  feet, 
Nor  with  coffers  of  the  wealthy, 

We  your  presence  greet. 

Boast  we  not  the  power  and  greatness 

Kings  and  princes  knew, 
Claim  we  not  a  greater  title 

Than  the  faithful  few. 


SONG  OF  WELCOME.  79 

Pray  we  now,  God's  gracious  favor 

On  you  here  to  rest ; 
All  your  labors  in  this  vineyard 

Be  divinely  blest. 

One  our  object,  one  our  longing  ; 

One  our  faith  and  trust ; 
Higher  be  Immanuel's  banner 

Lifted  from  the  dust. 

Welcome  !  welcome  to  this  vineyard, 

Servant  of  the  Lord, 
You  and  yours,  a  joyous  welcome, 

Gladly  we  accord. 


THOUGHTS  OF  HEAVEN. 

There  is  a  Heaven.     'Tis  good  to  know, 
That  when  from  earth  we  are  called  to  go, 
A  beautiful  world  replete  with  bliss, 
Is  opened  to  us  as  we  pass  from  this. 
It  is  not  fancy  or  night's  vain  dream, 
That  flies  like  a  phantom  at  morn's  first  beam, 
"I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you," 
Were  the  words  of  Christ.     Heaven  must  be  true. 

In  fancy  its  glories  we  often  see  ; 
And  only  in  fancy  shall  ever  be 
To  our  mortal  eyes  a  glimpse  revealed, 
Of  what  is  in  wisdom  now  concealed. 
What  are  those  streets,  compared  to  gold, 
We  may  not  know  till  we  behold 
The  city  itself — unused  to  night, 
Where  all  is  joy,  and  love,  and  light. 
"Dreams  cannot  picture  a  world  so  fair, 
Sorrow  and  death  may  not  enter  there." 
Afar  off,  indeed,  it  may  sometimes  seem, 
But  it  is  not  fancy,  nor  yet  a  dream  ! 

There  is  a  Heaven  ;  a  white-robed  throng ; 

With  them  are  the  loved  we  have  missed  so  long  ; 

We  shall  find  them  there  ;  and  O,  beside, 

We  shall  meet  our  Lord,  the  crucified. 

We  shall  see  Him  there  "as  He  is,"  we  read, 

And  like  Him  be,  from  sin  once  freed. 


THOUGHTS  OF  HEAVEN.  81 

We  shall  know  all  things — all  mysteries  now, 
When  there,  by  the  great  white  throne  we  bow, 
Just  how,  for  our  good  we  were  sometimes  told 
To  give  back  the  treasures  we  loved  to  hold. 
And  how,  it  was  just  as  the  Book  did  tell, 
Our  Father  "doeth  all  things  well." 
The  bridgeless  river  this  side  may  stretch, 
But  Heaven  is  true  ;  no  fancy  sketch. 

There  is  a  Heaven.     O,  who  would  fail, 
To  be  safely  sheltered  within  its  pale. 
To  rest  in  its  sunlight ;  best  of  all, 
To  go  no  more  out  from  its  jasper  wall. 
Sinner,  will  you,  till  all  too  late, 
Despise  the  path  that 's  narrow,  straight  ? 

0  thou  who  art  weary — tired  of  sin — 
Shall  the  Savior's  words  fail  yet  to  win  : 

"The  accepted  time  is  now — to-day — 

1  am  the  life,  the  truth,  the  way." 

There  is  a  Heaven.     It  matters  not, 

If  lowly  and  toilsome  be  my  lot. 

If  tears  do  blot  out  the  sunniest  smile, 

It  matters  not  for  a  little  while. 

What  if  I  never  have  here  a  home  ; 

What  if  a  stranger  through  earth  I  roam  ; 

What  if  I  carry  a  burdened  heart, 

What  if  with  fondest  friends  I  part ; 

What  if  the  blessings  I  wish  for  most, 

Seem  mine  to  be,  and  then  are  lost ; 

'Tis  but  for  a  season  ;  I  can  bear 

To  prove  all  things  false  while  seeming  fair, 

If  my  soul  is  singing  hope's  sweet  song, 

When  skies  are  heavy  and  storms  are  long, 

If  the  sunlight  still  showers  its  rays  divine 


82  THOUGHTS  OF  HE  A  YEN. 

O'er  paths  that  are  smoother  and  fairer  than  mine, 
If  somewhere,  in  beauty,  God's  green  hills  stretch, 
If  Heaven  be  true,  and  no  fancy  sketch. 

I  am  a  pilgrim,  still  called  young  ; 

Yet  often  the  joys  of  Heaven  I've  sung, 

And  it  comforts  me,  when  I  might  despair 

Had  I  no  hope  of  a  mansion  there. 

And  I've  ardently  longed  from  time  to  time, 

For  the  coveted  rest  of  that  sun-bright  clime. 

Skeptics  may  call  it  a  dream — a  cheat — 

But  it  makes  no  change  in  the  promise  sweet. 

If  sooner  or  later,  I  would  not  know, 

Just  how  or  when,  I  am  called  to  go, 

I  shall  know  when  I  enter — a  pardoned  wretch — 

My  Heaven  is  true  !  and  no  fancy  sketch  ! 


LITTLE  CARMEN. 

"Go  to  thy  rest,  fair  child, 

Go  to  thy  dreamless  bed  ; 
Lovely,  and  undefiled, 

With  blessings  on  thy  head." 

Pure  as  the  floral  gems 
Which  thy  last  pillow  graced, 

And  bright  as  morning's  dewy  rose, 
By  loving  hands  there  placed. 

Sweet  was  thy  seraph  smile, 

Labor,  for  thee  was  light, 
And  each  maternal,  tender  care, 

Was  such  a  dear  delight. 

The  pressure  of  thy  head, 

My  breast  shall  ever  miss  ; 
And  my  fond  lips  through  weary  years 

Be  burning  for  thy  kiss. 

Go,  join  the  loved  ones  gone, 

And  sweet  be  thy  repose, 
While  my  poor  heart  beats  sadly  on, 

Crushed  by  its  weight  of  woes. 


"PERFECTLY  HORRID." 

She  said  it  was  "perfectly  horrid  !" 

To  think  that  train  was  late — 
It  was  just  her  luck  !  and  the  depot,  too, 

Was  a  horrid  place  to  wait. 

And  she  knew  it  would  rain — 

It  always  did — if  she  wanted  to  go  away, 
And  would  be  (if  she  saw  the  veriest  cloud), 

A  perfectly  horrid  day. 

A  dress  pattern  brought  from  the  city, 

Was  of  really  handsome  design, 
But  she  said  the  "old  gold"  was  just  horrid  ! 

And  they  knew  that  she  liked  "dregs  of  wine." 

Was  the  party  last  evening  a  pleasure  ? 

No,  indeed  !     It  was  not  nice  at  all ! 
And  she  wanted  another  one  never  ; 

Such  a  perfectly  horrid  ball  ! 

The  sermon  was  perfectly  horrid, 

Since  nothing  at  which  she  could  laugh  ; 

She  had  rather  stay  home  on  a  Sunday, 
Than  hear  such  discourses,  by  half. 

When  she  has  been  out  all  the  morning, 

And  leisurely  spending  the  day, 
And  her  mother  would  snatch  a  brief  visit 

With  a  neighbor  just  over  the  way, 

It  is  perfectly  horrid  if  Clara 
Must  over  the  household  preside, 


"  PERFECTL  T  HORRID."  85 

She  wanted  to  go  out  that  evening, 
Just  her  luck — to  be  always  denied. 

It  is  horrid  to  be  disappointed, 

When  she  promised  a  friend  to  be  out, 

It  is  horrid  shut  up  with  the  children, 
And  horrid  to  have  them  about. 

And  so  with  this  foolish  grumbling, 

This  otherwise  pleasant  girl, 
Is  giving  her  friends  a  sore  trial, 

And  grown  to  be  almost  a  churl. 

Whatever  her  fancy  displeases, 

Is  perfectly  horrid  to  view  ; 
Whatever  involves  self-denial, 

Is  perfectly  horrid  to  do. 

Her  parents  and  friends  seem  created 

This  maiden  imperious  to  serve  ; 
And  never  from  her  line  of  duty 

Must  show  inclination  to  swerve. 

If  Clara,  herself  once  forgetting, 

Would  summon  her  best  thoughts  astir, 

She  would  know  they  had  often  and  kindly, 
Done  things  that  were  "horrid"  for  her. 

And  soon  this  imperious  lady, 

To  her  sorrow  and  shame  may  have  found 
That  her  best  friends  in  silence  are  thinking 

It  is  horrid  to  have  her  around. 


MEMORIAL  DAY. 

In  a  quiet,  eastern  village, 

And  near  to  Hudson's  Bay, 
On  a  couch,  in  smiling  languor. 

A  patriot  mother  lay. 
And  felt  through  the  open  lattice, 

The  wandering  breezes,  cool, 
Which  bore  on  their  wings  the  voices 

Of  the  children  just  from  school. 

And  when,  so  closely  passing, 

She  heard  their  lightsome  tread, 
She  beckoned  them  near  to  listen  ; 

And  these  are  the  words  she  said  : 
"To-morrow,  my  little  children, 

The  thirtieth  day  of  May, 
Is  the  nation's  In  Memoriam, 

Our  own  memorial  day. 

"To  visit  the  silent  cities, 

To  find  'mid  myriad  graves, 
And  honor  with  spring's  first  blossoms 

The  mounds  of  our  fallen  braves. 
I  have  pictured  the  scene  of  to-morrow, 

And  can  see  and  hear  to-night, 
The  martial  music  playing, 

And  the  little  girls  in  white. 

"But  the  flags  at  half-mast  hanging, 
The  crape  by  the  children  worn, 
And  the  low,  sad  notes  of  music, 
All  tell  of  a  time  to  mourn. 


MEMORIAL  DAT.  87 

Will  you  take  my  flowers  to  the  graveyard, 

And  strew,  as  I  tell  you  how? 
My  own  hands  crave  the  office, 

But  they  cannot  perform  it  now. 

"Here  are  flowers  in  my  garden  growing, 

And  some  from  the  wild  wood  shade  ; 
With  an  evergreen  wreath  I  give  you, 

That  here  on  my  couch  I  made. 
And  if  one,  lone  grave,  unnoticed, 

You  find,  where  no  tears  fall, 
Strew  there,  with  reverent  fingers, 

The  choicest  of  them  all. 

"I've  kindred  forms  there  lying, 

Of  earth  gone  all  the  way ; 
Though  years  have  passed  since  parting, 

How  near  they  seem  to-day  ! 
But  Oh  !  my  angel  soldier, 

The  youngest  of  two  I  gave, 
Found  rest  in  a  stranger  country, 

Was  laid  in  a  stranger's  grave. 

"They  buried  him  after  the  battle, 

The  federal  soldiers  did, 
But  I  know  not  where,  in  that  far  land, 

The  sacred  dust  is  hid. 
Or  whether  the  simple  head-stone, 

Is  standing  now  or  not, 
His  comrades  carved  and  planted 

To  mark  the  narrow  plot. 

"But  maybe  some  one  in  kindness, 

For  the  love  of  a  mother,  will 
Keep  watch  o'er  the  hidden  ashes, 
Secure  their  reposing  still. 


88  MEMORIAL  DAY. 

Will  know  by  its  own  heart's  telling, 
'Tis  heeding  a  mother's  prayer  : 

'Tread  lightly,  o'er  the  sacred  soil, 
A  loved  one's  buried  there.' 

"And  some  of  the  wildwood  blossoms 

The  Father  above  will  send, 
To  cover  the  grave  with  beauty, 

And  tenderly  over  it  bend. 
There — strew  your  fair  flowers  children, 

Though  they  but  faintly  tell 
Of  an  unassumed  devotion 

To  a  country  loved  so  well. 

"I  am  glad  that  the  nation  honors 

In  this  her  lamented  slain, 
And  hope  for  the  day's  observance 

In  the  years  that  to  you  remain. 
O,  think  of  the  sacrifice,  children, 

So  freely  for  liberty  made ; 
Remember,  the  war  was  cruel, 

And  great  was  the  ransom  paid." 


A  VISION. 

[Hop  Vineyards  of  Wisconsin.] 

Tis  twilight,  and  this  summer  day, 
The  idle  winds  about  me  play, 
In  gentle  zephyrs,  such  as  stray 

From  fields  elysian  ; 
While  to  me  comes  a  scene  so  bright, 
So  vivid  to  my  spirit's  sight, 
I  fain  would  stay  its  certain  flight — 

The  lovely  vision  ! 

I  see  fair  maidens  hastening  down, 
In  garden  hat  and  peasant's  gown, 
From  Werner,  and  from  Germantown, 

Their  sweet  songs  singing  ; 
From  Lyndon,  and  from  Mauston,  too, 
From  Reedsburg  and  from  Baraboo, 
Who  e'er  beheld  a  merrier  crew 

Than  they  are  bringing  ? 

They  come  from  schools,  from  stores,  from  shops, 
From  valleys  'twixt  the  mountain  tops, 
All  coming  down  to  gather  hops 

From  one  plantation. 
They've  traversed  many  a  long,  long  hill, 
Have  drunk  from  many  a  way-side  rill, 
And  now  arrived  at  Loganville, 

Their  destination. 


90  A   VISION. 

I  see  them  make  the  first  grand  charge 
Upon  the  hop  vines  full  and  large, 
Already  they  might  load  a  barge, 

With  half  their  treasure. 
I  hear  the  merry  jokes  they  crack, 
The  gay  rejoinder  ringing  back, 
Ah  !  now  some  rogue  is  in  the  sack, 

To  pine  at  leisure. 

I  hear  the  rustling  of  the  vines, 
Which  round  the  poles  so  closely  twine, 
While  many  voices  now  combine, 

The  hop  cry  sounding. 
I  hear  them  chant  some  wild  refrain, 
Till  distant  damsels  catch  the  strain, 
And  echo  gives  it  back  again, 

In  glad  resounding. 

I  see  them  coupled  side  by  side, 

For  evening  walk,  or  moonlight  ride, 

Like  fairies  here  and  there  they  glide, 

All,  pleasure  gaining, 
Or,  gathered  in  the  village  hall, 
Some  join  the  merry  harvest  ball, 
And  dance  until  the  hours  grow  small, 

And  night  is  waning. 

And  others  at  the  close  of  day, 
Into  the  village  graveyard  stray, 
Along  the  many  mounds  of  clay, 

Each  side  the  alley. 

I  think,  while  passing  green  banks  low, 
With  thoughtful  look  and  footstep  slow, 
Who  first  of  these  shall  slumber  so, 

Low  in  the  valley  ? 


A   VISION.  91 

What  fair  fields  in  the  future  lie  ! 
They  trace  them  out  in  evening's  sky  ; 
Nor  dream  they  paint  a  shade  too  high, 

Some  bright  to-morrow. 
And  have  they,  then,  no  doubts,  no  fears? 
No  thonght  of  future  griefs,  nor  tears  ? 
'Twere  well — for  in  the  happiest  years 

Are  hours  of  sorrow. 

I  see  them  on  their  farewell  night, 
And  hear  the  friendly  vows  they  plight, 
While  down  from  tender  eyes  and  bright, 

The  tears  are  starting. 
Hushed  every  song;  they  cannot  sing, 
As  round  this  fact  their  kind  thoughts  cling, 
The  early  morn  too  soon  must  bring 

The  hour  of  parting. 

I  know  that  ne'er  again  may  meet, 
The  pleasant  throng,  as  now,  complete, 
That  Hope,  too,  sometimes  loves  to  cheat 

The  fair  beholder — 
That  they  will  learn  in  ways  not  few, 
Some  things  are  false,  while  seeming  true, 
And  take  of  life  a  broader  view 

When  they  are  older. 

O,  when  life's  tiresome  race  is  run, 
Its  pleasures  past,  its  vict'ries  won, 
May  they  be  guided  one  by  one, 

Beyond  the  river, 

Up  to  "that  house  not  built  by  hand," 
Ages  eternal  through,  to  stand, 
And  go  out  that  from  beauteous  land, 

No  more  forever. 


FINDING   PAPA. 

Just  as  the  sombre  veil  of  night 

Was  falling  softly  down, 
Draping  beneath  its  phantom  folds 

The  beauties  of  the  town, 
A  wee,  sweet  child,  and  all  alone, 

Across  the  pavement  stepped, 
A  sorrowing  little  wayfarer, 

The  while  she  sobbed  and  wept. 

"What  is  your  trouble,  little  one  ?" 

A  gentle  stranger  said, 
In  pity  for  the  winsome  one, 

And  for  the  tears  she  shed, 
"Where  are  you  going  all  alone?" 

The  sobbing  answer  came, 
"I'm  going  down  to  find  papa ;" 

"But  what's  your  papa's  name  ? 

"And  what  does  mama  call  him,  child  ? 

Why  do  you  go  to  find 
Your  father  in  the  dark  to-night  ?" 

These  were  the  questions,  kind. 
"His  name  is  papa;  that  is  all; 

My  mama  calls  him  so, 
Just  calls  him  papa" — and  her  tears 

Began  anew  to  flow. 
"What  do  you  want  to  find  him  for? 

Say,  darling,  tell  me  this :" 


FINDING  PAPA. 

"I  want  to  find  papa,"  she  said, 

"To  give  him  baby's  kiss." 
"Come  then,  with  me,"  the  lady  urged, 

"I  think  the  way  you've  lost ; 
I'll  take  you  safely  back  again ;" 

But  ere  the  street  was  crossed — 
"No,  no ;  not  that  way,"  plead  the  child, 

"Not  that  way,  now,  but  this ; 
I  want  to  find  my  papa,  first, 
I  want  him  now,  to  kiss." 

Dear  child  !     The  lesson  sorrow  gives 

Is  one  so  hard  to  teach  ; 
The  little  arms  in  loving  search 

The  grave's  depths  cannot  reach. 
The  lips  her  own  were  won't  to  meet, 

Whose  touch  she  grieved  to  miss, 
Are  silent  by  the  touch  of  Death — 

Sealed  with  his  icy  kiss. 

Three  days  the  patient  little  brave, 

Of  summers  less  than  three, 
Had  waited  at  the  eventide, 

Her  father's  form  to  see. 
Then,  sorrowing  lest  he  too,  should  mourn 

Her  light  caress  to  miss, 
Had  wandered  out  to  find  papa, 

And  give  him  baby's  kiss. 


ALWAYS  THERE, 

It  is  always  there,  the  same  old  song, 

Though  new  the  measure  and  new  the  wordr 
If  we  listen  to  liear  the  singer  through, 

The  old-time  melody  may  be  heard. 
No  other  fields  so  fair  as  those, 

Where  "the.  barefoot  maiden  raked  the  hay," 
And  no  other  brooklet  so  bright  as  that 

Where  Katy  lingered  with  Willie  Gray. 

The  prince  may  tell  it  in  princely  style, 

In  my  lady's  bower,  as  the  hour  grows  late, 
But  how  much  better  for  her  who  hears, 

Than  the  savage,  wooing  his  dusky  mate  ? 
'Tisn't  all  for  the  sake  of  the  scattered  flocks, 

The  horn's  merry  music  through  glen  and  glade, 
There's  a  cot  in  the  vale,  not  far  below, 

And  the  shepherd   boy   worships  the   mountain 
maid. 

One  sings  the  praises  of  fatherland, 

Of  a  graceful  river  flowing  there  ; 
A  river  running  as  straight,  he  says, 

As  the  parting  line  of  a  maiden's  hair. 
And  then,  just  there,  he  will  chance  to  think 

Of  the  old,  loved  days,  and  Bonnie  Doon, 
And  how  on  its  banks  with  his  love  he  strayed, 

In  the -witching  light  of  a  silver  moon. 


ALWAYS  THERE.  95 

Or  how  on  its  bosom,  with  resting  oar, 

He  heard  the  sweetest  of  wild  bird's  note, 
While  a  sweeter  voice,  and  a  brighter  bird, 

Made  Heaven  to  him,  of  a  painted  boat ; 
The  old  man  musing  beside  the  hearth, 

Recalling  his  rollicking  boyhood  times, 
Will  give  you  a  glowing  picture  there, 

And  his  apt  descriptions  are  all  in  rhymes. 

Of  a  schoolhouse — crumbling  cabin  now — 

He  tells,  and  all  of  us  love  to  hear, 
But  it  lures  him  to  speak  of  a  brown-eyed  girl, 

That  was  once,  and  to  him,  forever  dear. 
He  has  hidden  the  secret  long  and  well ; 

A  rival — Death — won  the  brown-eyed  girl, 
But  I  thought  he  would  tell  us  before  he  went, 

The  story  entwined  in  that  shining  curl. 

And  one,  of  old  ocean  grandly  sings, 

Of  the  freighted  ships  on  the  bounding  sea ; 

Of  a  sailor's  venturous  life,  and  one — 
Who  is  waiting  a  sailor's  bride  to  be. 

We  are  told  how  the  battle  at  length  was  won, 
By  the  bravest  of  heroes,  who  knew  no  fear, 

But  softly  we  whisper  his  dying  words  : 
"Take  back  to  my  Mary  these  keepsakes  here." 

Then  the  poet  sings  you  of  earth  and  heaven, 

With  all  the  pen  eloquence  in  his  power, 
Of  the  manifold  lessons  in  nature  taught, 

And  the  beauties  of  summer  after  a  shower. 
The  freshness  and  fragrance  of  rain-bathed  wood, 

Of  rippling  river  and  smiling  sky, 
Of  soft,  bright  clouds  where  we  long  to  rest, 

And  the  shadows  that  over  the  meadows  lie. 


96  ALWAYS  THERE. 

He  mentions  the  orchard  and  farmhouse,  too, 

And  remembers  the  plough-boy's  happy  shout, 
And  you  smile,  as  you  think  he  is  almost  through, 

And  this  time  it  surely  will  be  left  out. 
But  wait — there  is  something  he  yet  would  say, 

And  look  !  there  is  room  in  one  line  more, 
I  knew  there  were  more  than  the  roses  there, 

Two  lovers  beside  the  open  door. 

And  what  if  it  is  told  o'er  and  o'er, 

In  different  measure,  by  different  muse, 
As  the  morning  light  and  the  evening  air, 

We  take  it  ever  as  latest  news. 
In  the  story  that  charms  of  an  eastern  clime, 

The  beautiful  garden  and  rivers  there, 
What  to  us  were  the  glory  of  fruit  and  tree, 

Were  no  record  kept  of  its  happy  pair. 


WHEN. 

•'At  even,  or  at  midnight,  or  at  the  cock-croiving,  or  in  the  morniny." 

It  may  be  in  the  evening, 

When  the  long  day's  work  is  done, 
And  you  sit  for  a  quiet  resting, 

And  gaze  at  the  setting  sun  ; 
Feeling  so  sure  of  to-morrow's  light, 

And  many  bright  days  to  be, 
And  hours  of  pleasure,  and  scenes  of  joy 

To  be  lengthened  out  to  thee  ; 
Thinking  how  many  cherished  plans 

Shall  shine  as  a  perfect  whole, 
Wrought  out  by  your  patience  and  skill  and 
strength, 

E'er  required  of  thee  thy  soul. 
Watch  !  for  I  may  be  drawing  near, 

Of  your  thoughts,  pray,  give  me  some, 
For  it  may  be  in  an  hour  like  this, 

In  the  evening,  I  will  come. 

Or  you  sit  alone  in  the  twilight, 

And  remember  a  sainted  friend, 
You  were  won't  to  meet  at  the  trysting-place, 

The  twilight  hour  to  spend  ; 
And  you  look  away  o'er  the  river's  breast, 

To  the  white  stones  on  the  hill, 
The  towers  of  the  silent  city, 

So  peaceful,  and  fair  and  still, 


98  WHEN. 

And  think  of  the  many  funeral  trains 

That  have  recently  there  been  led, 
And  wonder  who  next  shall  be  thither  borne- 

Who  next  shall  be  numbered  dead. 
Watch  !  for  your  eyelids  next  may  close, 

And  your  lips  be  chill  and  dumb ; 
It  may  be  in  an  hour  like  this, 

In  the  twilight,  I  will  come. 

Or  it  may  be  at  the  midnight, 

When  one  of  a  brilliant  band, 
Drinking  deep  draughts  at  pleasure's  fountj 

Th.e  gayest  of  all  you  stand ; 
Or,  wakened  from  sleep  at  the  midnight  hour, 

By  music's  resistless  call, 
The  tones  of  a  harp,  and  a  well-known  voice, 

On  your  raptured  ear  may  fall ; 
Remember,  it  may  be  the  last  of  earth, 

Attuned  by  a  friendly  hand, 
The  music  of  angels  may  gladden  you  next, 

And  the  harps  of  the  Heavenly  Land. 
Or,  you  stand  with  some  late  retiring  guest, 

Reluctant  to  say  good-bye, 
And  the  queen  of  night  looks  calmly  down, 

And  the  stars  in  a  quiet  sky ; 
Keep  it  not  back,  the  one  good  word, 

Nor  wait  for  an  hour  more  blest, 
To-morrow  may  be  written  of  you, 

"Has  entered  eternal  rest." 
Watch  !  for  my  shadow  may  circle  you  soon, 

Of  your  thoughts  still  leave  me  some, 
For  it  may  be  "as  a  thief  in  the  night," 

At  midnight,  I  will  come. 

It  may  be  at  the  cock-crowing, 
Between  the  night  and  day, 


WEEN.  99 

When  wearily  upon  your  couch 

You  have  worried  the  hours  away, 
And  all  save  you  in  the  household 

Are  buried  in  slumber  deep, 
And  you  long  for  the  light  of  the  coming  morn, 

Which  shall  bring  you  rest  and  sleep. 
With  all  your  waking,  anxious  thoughts 

Remember  to  give  me  some, 
Perhaps  in  the  early  morning — 

The  cock-crowing — I  will  come. 
Or,  remembrance  of  wrong  you  have  done  to  a 
friend, 

May  trouble  or  hinder  your  rest, 
As  you  think  of  forgiveness  which  might  have 
been  yours 

Long  ago,  had  you  only  confessed ; 
Do  not  reckon  too  much  on  your  portion  of  time, 

Nor  proudly  yet  longer  delay, 
"The  Son  of  Man  cometh — you  know  not  the  hour," 

Maybe  'twixt  the  night  and  the  day. 

Or  it  may  be  in  the  morning, 

When  the  wind  is  fresh  and  strong, 
When  the  dew-gemmed  flowers  are  smiling, 

And  the  air  is  full  of  song ; 
And  you  rise  up  earlier  than  your  wont, 

And  answer  the  song-bird's  lay, 
With  the  song  of  hope,  for  the  absent  one 

Is  coming  home  to-day  ; 
And  you  think  how  sweet  to  have  a  home, 

From  the  weary  world  aside, 
A  rest,  a  refuge,  a  home  like  yours — 

Where  peace  and  love  abide. 
And  you  say  that  this  beautiful  home  of  yours 

Must  nothing  of  comfort  lack, 


100  WHEN. 

For  the  absent  one  who  enters  to-day, 

With  the  friend  he  is  bringing  back. 
Remember,  while  waiting  the  journeying  ones, 

My  shadow  may  hasten  before, 
Unbidden,  'tis  true,  yet  nevertheless, 

I,  soonest  may  enter  your  door. 
Watch  !  always  and  ever,  in  joy  or  fear, 

Of  your  thoughts  still  give  me  some, 
For  it  may  be  in  an  hour  like  this, 

In  the  morning,  I  will  come. 


THE  OLD  SETTLER'S  LETTER. 

I  Written  for  the  Reunion  of  the  Old  Settlers  of  Chautauqua  County,  N.  Y.,  held  in 
Fredonia,  June,  1873.] 

I've  wandered  through  Chautauqua,  Jim,  I've  been  where 

stood  the  tree, 

That  in  the  years  of  long  ago,  oft  sheltered  you  and  me  ; 
But  few  were  left  to  greet  me,  Jim,  and  few  on  earth  re 
main — 
Yes,  fewer  than  the  grand  old  trees  once  covering  hill 

and  plain — 
Are  the  dear  forms  we  learn 'd  to  love,  here  on  Chautau- 

qua's  soil, 
Whose  sympathies  alike  were  ours,  in  pleasure,  grief  and 

toil. 
Chautauqua's  just  as  lovely,  Jim,  aye,  lovelier    too,  I 

ween, 
Than  when  we  first  pronounced  her  fair — fairer  than  we 

had  seen. 

And  what  a  change  !  'tis  greater  far  than  we  can  com 
prehend  ; 

Beyond  the  pictures  of  to-day  that  fancy  used  to  lend, 

When  we  sat  down  to  think  and  talk  in  our  new  settler's 
home, 

Of  what  this  country  might  be,  Jim,  in  the  long  years 
to  come. 

For  we  were  pioneers  then,  just  from  the  old  Bay  State ; 

We  left  the  old  folks  watching  us  beside  the  old  farm 
gate. 


102  THE'  OLD  SETTLED S  LETTER. 

But  bye  and  bye,  they  too,  set  out,  the  long,  slow  march' 
to  take, 

And  came  "out  west  to  die,"  they  said,  "just  for  the  child 
ren's  sake." 

We  pitched-  our  tents  here  side  by  side,  o'erlooking  Erie's: 

breast, 

And  thought  to  spend  our  days  here,  Jim,  and  go  no- 
farther  west. 
And  Heaven  was  kind,  and  prospered  us ;  we  had  our 

ups  and  downs, 
And  fortune's  share  of  smiles  for  us  was  interspersed 

with  frowns. 
Wo  did  not  have  our  coffers  then  filled  yearly  to  the 

brim, 
Somehow  we  didn't  need  so  much  as  folks  do  nowdays, 

Jim, 

For  people  didn't  live  so-  fast  in  good  old-fashioned  daysr 
And  for  their    money  didn't  have  so  many   thousand 

ways. 
Our  young  folks  little  know  to-day  what  toil  or  hardship 

means, 
Compared  with  we  old  settlers,  Jim,  we've  been  behind 

the  scenes. 
We  struggled  on  when  times  were  hard,  and  yearly,  as 

a  rule, 
Contrived  to  spare  some  time  and  means  to  get  the  boys 

in  school.  / 

For  often  we  lamented  that  in  old  New  England,  Jim, 
Our  chances  for  book  learning  were,  at  best  but  very 

slim. 
The  old  Academy  still  stands  where  we  our  children 

sent, 
And  where,  upon  commencement  day,  we  country  gentry 

went. 


THE  OLD  SETTLERS  LETTER.  103 

Well,  when  our  boys  were  grown-up  men,  the  spirit  of 
unrest 

They  caught,  as  we  before  them  did,  and  settled  in  the 
west. 

And  so  in  time  we  followed  on,  our  farewells  loth  to  take, 

And  once  more  we  were  pioneers — "just  for  the  child 
ren's  sake." 

•Since  then  we've  had -a  war— you  know,  rebellion,  dark 
and  deep — 

For  four,  long  years  the  contest  was,  which  made  a 
nation  weep. 

It  slew  an  arm}7  of  brave  boys,  and  with  them  yours  and 
mine 

Laid  early  in  the  sacrifice  their  lives  on  freedom's  shrine. 

Some-  breathed  their  last  on  battle-fields—no  friend  or 

kindred  nigh, 
And  some  were  maimed  forever,  Jim,  and  some  brought 

home  to  die. 

Others  in  army  hospitals  were  dying — sure  but  slow — 
While  some  in  rebel  prison  pens  were  starved  to  death 

you  know. 
Ah  !  well !  we  could  not  know  that    God  our    prayers 

would  answer  thus, 
That  slavery  in  its  fearful  death  would  come  so  near 

to  us. 

Our  flag?  new  glory  gilds  the  stars  upon  a  field  of  blue, 
The   stripes — baptized    in    martyrs'  blood — wear  deeper 

crimson  hue ; 

And  we  rejoice  in  our  old  age  that  we  have  lived  to  see 
Columbia's  banner  o'er  a  land  from  dread  oppression  free. 

But  to  return :  my  coming  here — the  time— how  oppor 
tune  ! 

The  gath'ring  of  old  settlers  of  Chautauqua,  Jim,  in 
June. 


104  THE  OLD  SETTLERS  LETTER. 

Fredonia ! — lovely,    charming    town,  the  pioneer's  just 

pride, 
Her  every  home,  and  heart,  and  hand,  and  purse  were 

opened  wide 
To  give  the  settlers  welcome,  Jim,  in  every  place  and 

way, 
To  make  the  old  folks  young  again,  just  for  a  night  and 

day. 

On  ample  tables  long  and  broad,  a  sumptuous  feast  was 

spread, 
And  with  the  modern  dainties  there,  were  "loaves   of 

»     mother's  bread." 
And  food  was  served  on  old-time  wares,  with  handles 

quaint  and  lid, 
To   make   the   place   look   home-like,  Jim,  as  mother's 

kitchen  did. 

And  if  these  relics  gave  us  power  the  old  times  to  recall, 
Much  more  did  ancient  ornaments  displayed  in  Union 

Hall. 
In  vases  of  the  olden   ware   were   flowers   our   country 

maids 
On  summer  evenings  long  ago  twined  in  their  curls  and 

braids. 

Old-fashioned  blossoms,  small,  but  sweet,  were  gathered 

with  the  rest, 
Like  those  worn  in  the  button-hole  of  our  old-fashioned 

vest. 
With  these,  have  you  forgotten,  Jim,  how  grand  we  were, 

and  gay, 

To  have  a  shilling  all  our  own,  on  general  training  day? 
Or,  with  our   sweethearts— pretty    girls — we    wandered 

'neath  the  stars, 
And  parted  slowly  at  the  stile,  or  "kissed  'em  through 

the  bars?" 


THE  OLD  SETTLERS  LETTER.  105 

And  when  beneath  the  old  home  roof  we  wed  a  bonny 

bride, 
We  didn't  sail  for  Europe,  Jim,  we  took  a  horse-back 

ride. 

It's  done  my  old  eyes  good  to  see,  as  well  as  heart  to 

hear, 
The  smiles  of  joy  that  greeted  me,  the  words  of  hearty 

cheer. 
Then,  too,  at  eve  those  dear   old  hymns  and  melodies 

were  sung — 
The  very  words  we  sang  ourselves  wheu  you  and  I  were 

young. 
There  was  a  time  I'd  blush  to  weep,  so  womanish  !  and 

weak  ! 
But  something — something  from  my  eye — came  stealing 

down  my  cheek  ; 
Ah  !  'twas  a  tear-drop,  not  just  one,  there  came  a  shower 

of  tears, 
And  mirrored  in  the  liquid  gems  I  saw  the  long  gone 

years. 

A  hundred  recollections,  Jim,  seemed  forming  into  line, 
A  hundred  strange  emotions  felt,  I  cannot  well  define  ; 
I  thought  of  all  the  hopes  and  joys  of  youth's  bright 

morning  brief, 
Their  memory  filled  my  spirit  with  a  kind  of  nameless 

grief; 
I  thought  of  those  we  hope  to  meet  in  that  "sweet  bye 

and  bye," 
Where  we  shall  never  weary  be,  and  ne'er  grow  old  and 

die. 

It  can't  be  very  distant  now,  my  senses  fail  me,  Jim, 
I  scarce  can  find  familiar  texts  or  read  my  favorite  hymn : 


106  THE  OLD  SETTLERS  LETTER. 

I  love  to  think  life's  blessings  o'er,  not  far  between  nor 
few ; 

And  one  is,  Jim,  with  all  the  change  I've  found  no 
change  in  you  ; 

We've  entered  on  life's  winter,  and  when  dawns  immor 
tal  spring, 

We'll  join  the  glad  reunion  of  the  children  of  the  King. 


IF  I  COULD. 

If  I  could  call  my  darling  back, 

From  out  the  realms  of  light, 
Could  lay  her  silken,  shining  head 

Beside  my  own  to-night, 
Could  feel  one  little  hand  in  mine, 

And  one  upon  my  cheek, 
And  catch  the  sweet  words  from  her  eyes, 

Lips  do  not  always  speak, 
Ah  !  if  I  could  !  don't  say  me  nay — 

Nor  question  if  I  would, 
Tis  better  I  have  not  the  power, 

Had  I,  I  fear  I  should. 

I  know  the  blissful  life  above, 

That  pure  and  sinless  state, 
Is  better  far  than  life  on  earth, 

Where  death  for  all  doth  wait ; 
I  know  she  went  ere  her  fair  soul 

With  evil  had  a  part, 
Or  sins  had  dreamed  of  which  I  own 

Lie  heavy  on  my  heart. 
All  this  I  know,  yet  chide  me  not, 

Nor  blame  me  if  I  would, 
Call  back  to  earth-life,  and  to  me, 

My  Katie  if  I  could. 

I  thought  I  could  not  live  my  life 
Without  the  precious  child, 


108  IF  I  COULD. 

Without  the  childish  graces  which 

My  heaviest  hours  beguiled. 
I  do  not  live — I  only  dream — 

Save  when  some  voice  of  hers, 
Or  word,  or  deed  with  magic  touch, 

My  slumbering  being  stirs. 
Then  with  my  starving  heart  I  cry : 

I'm  glad  I've  not  the  power, 
Lest  I  might  bid  to  bloom  on  earth 

Once  more,  the  lovely  flower. 
"No  other  gods  before  me,"  saith 

The  High  and  Holy  one, 
I  see  and  hear  the  words,  and  feel 

'Tis  this  that  I  have  done. 
She  was  my  idol — Katie,  sweet, 

To  worship  her  seemed  good  ; 
Nor  dare  I  say,  I'd  nevermore 

So  worship,  if  I  could. 
It  may  be  I  at  ease  should  tread 

A  narrow,  selfish  sphere, 
Contented  with  her  love  alone, 

Had  I  my  idol  here, 
Unworthy  was  I  of  the  charge 

O'er  this  bright  jewel  rare, 
Heaven  saw  my  weakness,  and  the  need, 

And  so  preferred  the  care. 
Yet,  there  are  hours  I  cannot  stay, 

Nor  hinder  .if  I  would, 
When  I  would  gladly  take  again 

My  Katie,  if  I  could. 
How  small  a  spot  of  this  green  earth 

Holds  all  the  world  to  me  ! 
How  small  the  charms  of  all  the  world 

Without  her  seem  to  be. 


IF  I  COULD. 

Stretching  my  hands  above  her  grave, 

The  Giver  of  all  Good, 
I  pray  to  pardon  for  the  wish 

To  claim  her  if  I  could. 


GIRLS  OF  NUMBER  TEX, 

In  my  fireside  dreams  and  musings, 

Oft  a  picture  comes  and  goes, 
Turning  all  the  gloom  to  brightness 

By  the  mellow  light  it  throws. 
Turn  I  now  to  my  portfolio, 

Turn  to  catch  it  with  my  pen; 
I  will  captive  take  and  name  it — 

Name  it  Girls  of  Number  Ten. 
Carrie,  sweet-voiced,  gentle  Carrie, 

With  her  kindly,  thoughtful  face, 
Ella,  with  her  fun  and  frolic, 

Ada  with  her  queenly  grace  ; 
Hattie,  with  her  dark  eyes  gleaming. 

Hannah  with  her  loving  ways, 
Frankie,  with  her  voice  melodious, 

Singing  now  some  song  of  praise, 
Frankie,  sing  my  song  this  evening. 

And  the  chorus — (tell  me  when) — 
I  will  join  and  sing  it  with  you, 

As  we  did  at  number  ten. 
Now  around  the  tempting  table, 

This  fair  group  disposed,  I  see  ; 
Where's  a  brighter  group,  or  merrier? 

Telling  tales  and  taking  tea. 
Tea-time  over,  then  to  study 

Some  will  hurriedly  repair, 
Others  to  the  post  are  strolling, 

This,  vou  know,  to  "take  the  air." 


GIEL8  OF  NUMBER  TEN.  Ill 

Then  return,  their  tasks  resuming, 
Sobering  down  o'er  book  and  pen, 

What  a  wealth  of  lore  they're  gaining, 
Studious  girls  of  number  ten. 

But  the  scene  is  changed — what  is  it? 

Sweet  sounds  on  my  ears  now  fall ; 
Ah  !  'tis  only  Hannah,  laughing, 

Hannah,  laughing  through  the  hall. 
Did  I?  yes,  I  heard  the  door-bell ; 

Some  one  calls — of  course,  a  friend  ; 
Ella's  wanted  in  the  parlor, 

Wit  and  graces  both  to  lend. 
Hattie  (Dodge)  in  such  a  hurry  ! 

Dodging  up  and  down  the  stairs, 
Dodging  through  the  door  half  open, 

Comes  on  Frankie  unawares. 
Frankie,  busy  with  a  letter, 

Rather  wishes  none  to  see, 
Strange,  now,  that  the  child  should  blush  so, 

Dear  !  who  can  the  author  be  ? 
And  the  girls  below — how  quiet 

Seem  they,  every  now  and  then, 
Must  be  there's  some  mischief  plotting ; 

Roguish  girls  of  number  ten. 

But  again  ;  another  evening  ; 

Books  and  lessons  all  laid  by ; 
And  the  girls  in  great  commotion, 

All  about  the  house  they  fly. 
There  !  you  needn't  tell,  I've  guessed  it, 

And  I'm  pretty  sure  I'm  right, 
There's  a  social,  or  a  soiree, 

And  the  girls  must  dress  to-night. 
Laughing,  chatting,  coaxing,  teasing, 

Braiding,  puffing,  crimping  hair, 


113  GIRLS  OF  NUMBER  TEN. 

Turning  o'er  the  lovely  garments. 

Scarcely  knowing  which  to  wear. 
"Hattie,  shall  I  wear  this  costume?" 

"No  ;  not  that ;  'tis  such  a  fright ; 
Have  on  something  brighter,  gayer, 

Don't  wear  drab,  or  grey,  to-nigh t.'r 
"Frankie,  do,  just  fold  these  laces — 

(What  a  handsome  suit  you've  made  I 
Mine  will  not  be  half  so  taking) — 

Pin  these  buds  beside  my  braid. 
Some  one  praised  my  hair  in  flowers — 

(Let  me  draw  again  this  bow) — 
What?  'may  serve  to  draw  another?7 

Yes,  the  other  kind,  you  know." 
Farewell  glances  in  the  mirror, 

Farewell  touches  each,  and  then, 
Off  to  make  a  new  sensation, 

Charming  girls  of  number  ten. 

Yet  once  more,  the  panorama 

Will  another  coloring  bear, 
For  the  vesper  bell  has  sounded, 

Calling  all  to  evening  prayer. 
Ella  reads  to-night  the  chapter, 

Chosen  from  the  sacred  word, 
Then  a  melody  of  voices 

In  a  hymn  of  praise  is  heard. 
Then  a  prayer — a  supplication — 

To  our  Father,  God,  addressed  ; 
Giving  thanks  for  all  His  favors, 

Craving  blessings  on  their  rest. 
O,  in  this  loved  hour  of  worship, 

Sometime,  ere  }TOU  say  amen, 
Let  my  name  be  unforgotten 

In  the  prayers  of  number  ten. 


GIRLS  OF  NUMBER  TEN.  113 

Weary  now  with  school  and  study, 

Weary  at  the  evening's  close, 
Welcome  is  the  rest  of  dreamland, 

Welcome  quiet  and  repose. 
Late  !  the  lights  are  out — but  listen  ! 

Something  moves  across  the  room  ; 
And  I  hear  a  stealthy  stepping — 

Stepping  ghost-like  through  the  gloom  ; 
Soon  a  gentle  voice  assures  me 

'Tis  no  spectre  to  affright, 
Only  Hannah,  snowy  vestured, 

Comes  to  say  a  last  good-night. 
Absent  now  from  this  glad  circle, 

Favors  friendly  oft  I  miss, 
And  when'er  I  sink  to  slumber, 

Wish  for  Hannah's  good-night  kiss. 
Schoolday  hours  will  soon  be  over, 

Broken  this  gay  band,  and  then  ? 
Bear,  O  Time,  a  useful  future 

To  the  girls  of  number  ten. 


I'LL  MEET  .HIM  AT  THE  GATE. 

[A  young  wife  was  dying.  It  was  impossible  for  her  husband  in  a  distant  State,  to 
arrive  before  her  death.  She  asked  repeatedly  if  he  would  come,  and  at  the  last 
moment  said :  "I  should  like  to  have  seen  Edwin ;  tell  him  I'll  meet  him  at  the  gate."] 

Is  he  coming,  sister,  coming?     Will  my  husband  come 

once  more  ? 
0,  I've  longed  this  night  to  see  him,  as  I  never  longed 

hefore ; 
And  I've  thought  of  all  the  kindness  which  his  patient 

love  hath  shown, 
How  like  tenderest  caresses  seemed  each  look  and  touch 

and  tone. 
O,  if  I  could  once  more  thank  him,  once  more  for  one 

moment  rest, 
By  his  gentle  arms  enfolded,  pillowed   on  his    faithful 

breast 

How  I  long  to  reassure  him,  lest  he  may  not  understand  ; 
How  I'd  love  good-bye  to  tell  him,  how  I'd  love  to  take 

his  hand. 
I  am  dying,  sister,  dying ;  he  will   come,  but  come  too 

late, 
Not  this  side  of  Heaven  I'll  see  him,  but  I'll  meet  him 

at  the  gate. 

At  the  gate  which  oft  we  sang  of — mercy's  gate,  ajar  for 

him  ; 
He  will  sing  it  now  without  me,  softly  in  the  twilight 

dim; 


I'LL  MEET  HIM  AT  THE  GATE.  115 

Nearer  '11  seem  the  gate  of  Heaven  than  it  ever  yet  hath 

seemed, 
When  I've  passed  beyond  its  portals,  when  I'm  with  the 

Lord's  redeemed. 
0,  if  I  myself  might  tell  him,  but  I  must  not,  cannot 

wait, 
Tell  him,  sister,  all  I've  told  you,  say  I'll   meet  him  at 

the  gate. 

*Ah  !  how  well  do  I  remember  days  and  hours  ere  we 

were  wed ; 
How  I  watched  the  gate  and  pathway  which  unto  the 

old  home  lad. 
Often,  in  the  hush  of  evening,    waited  for  him,  never 

late ; 
Joyous  was  our  vesper  meeting,  always  meeting  at  the 

gate. 

He  will  lonely  be,  so  lonely  ;  and  'tis  this  that  makes  me 

grieve ; 
Yet  not  all  alone,  for  with  him  our  two  darling  babes  I 

leave. 
And  I  know  they'll  comfort  give   him  in  their  blessed, 

childlike  way, 
Happy,  smiling,  little  Edith,  and   our   blue-eyed   baby 

Ray. 
Other  two  the  Father  gave  us,  two  that  were  our  joy  and 

pride, 
Angel  Minnie,  darling  Lester,  will  be  mine  the  other 

side 
Of  that  gate  I  soon  shall  enter,  and  for  him  beside  it 

wait, 
Not  this  side  of  Heaven  I'll  see  him,  but  I'll  meet  him 

at  the  gate. 


116  I'LL  MEET  HIM  AT  THE  GATE. 

When  the  shadows  round  him  gather,  when  oppressed 
with  grief  and  pain, 

Earth-sick,  desolate  and  weary,  when  his  life  seems  all 
in  vain, 

Hoping  Heaven's  gate  to  enter,  he  will  never  quite  de 
spair, 

Comforted  because  a  loved  one  waits  and  watches  for 
him  there. 

Tell  him  this,  all  this,  my  sister ;  he  will  come,  but  come 
too  late, 

Not  this  side  of  Heaven  I'll  see  him,  but  I'll  meet  him 
at  the  gate. 


TILL  YOU  PASSED  BY. 

O,  darkly  frowned  the  angry  sky, 

And  wildly  blew  the  wintry  blast, 
As  through  the  city's  crowded  street, 

A  little  newsboy  slowly  passed. 
The  passers-by  seemed  slow  to  heed 

His  urgent  calls  to  buy  the  news ; 
In  vain  he  looked,  if  one  did  turn, 

'Twas  only  that  he  might  refuse. 

At  length,  a  lady,  lovely,  young, 

Adown  the  pavement  pressed  her  way, 
Who  smilingly  a  paper  took, 

And  paused  the  simple  price  to  pay. 
And  viewing  there  his  scanty  dress. 
Scarce  half  sufficient  for  his  need, 
"Poor  little  boy  !"  she  gently  said, 
"Are  you  not  very  cold  indeed  ?" 

Then  quickly,  brightly  looking  up, 
How  gallant  was  the  boy's  reply  : 
As  if  a  charm  her  presence  bore, 

"I  was,"  said  he,  "till  you  passed  by  !" 
"Till  you  passed  by  !"     How  beautiful 
The  compliment  he  thus  expressed  ; 
What  eloquence  in  his  response 
To  her  his  hapless  lot  had  blest. 

"Till  you  passed  by  !"     Which  of  the  two, 
Think  you  was  thus  the  happier  made? 


IIS  TILL   YOU  PASSED  BY. 

The  boy,  at  finding  such  a  friend, 

Or  she,  who  gave  him  timely  aid? 
"Till  you  passed  by  !"     Angels  indeed. 
Still  walk  the  earth  in  human  guiser 

To  bless  the  wean*  helpless  ones — 
To  wipe  the  tears  from  sorrow's  eyes. 

"Till  you  passed  by  I''     Have  we  not  all 

These  angel  spirits  sometime  known, 
Who  met  us  when  our  way  was  dark, 

With  gracious  smile  and  gentle  tone? 
And  though  our  pathways  nevermore 

May  cross,  but  wide  apart  must  lie, 
Still,  in  our  inmost  heart  live  thoughts 

To  bless  them  e'en  for  passing  by. 

And  has  the  earth  some  favored  ones, 

To  whom  the  world  grows  never  dark  ? 
Whose  sea  of  life  unchanging,  smooth, 

Bears  gaily  on  their  prosperous  bark? 
To  whom  there  never  comes  a  time 

When  pleasure's  sun  for  aye  seems  set  ? 
When  long  they  for  some  passing  charm 

To  make  them  all  the  world  forget? 

"Till  yon,  passed  by  !"     I'd  rather  have 

Such  words  as  these  fall  on  my  ear, 
From  lips  of  those  I've  tried  to  bless, 

Than  flattery's  fairest  speech  to  hear. 
Reader,  shall  you  and  I  not  live 

So  1hat  of  all  we  come  so  nigh, 
Some  few  at  least,  may  own  themselves 

The  happier  for  our  passing  by? 


DRESSMAKING. 

If  ever  by  mortal  was  needed 

Of  hands  just  a  pair  or  two  more, 
'Tis  the  toiler  within  at  the  dwelling 

Where  "Dressmaking" 's  over  the  door. 
And  if  any  there  be  who  are  gaining 

By  moisture  of  cheek  and  of  brow, 
The  bread  upon  which  they're  subsisting, 

It  is  dressmakers,  you  will  allow. 

Just  look  at  my  tables  and  counters, 

And  see  all  this  work  to  be  done ; 
All  finished  by  Saturday  evening, 

And  some  of  it  scarcely  begun. 
This  pink  dress  'twere  proper  to  worship — 

Since  like  unto  nothing  at  all, 
It  will  meet  with  adorers  I  fancy. 

When  worn  at  the  fancy  dress  ball. 

This  pearl-colored  one — so  bewitching — 

With  trimmings  of  lace  at  the  side, 
Has  only  one  rival  for  beauty — 

Its  owner — a  beautiful  bride. 
This  brown  suit,  you  know,  is  for  traveling, 

For  a  voyager  over  the  wave; 
And  this  snowy  robe  I  am  stitching, 

For  another  fair  bride — of  the  grave. 


120  DRESSMAKING. 

From  morning  till  evening  I'm  hurried 

And  worried  half  out  of  my  wits  ; 
Till  it  seems  in  some  hours  of  distraction, 

I  shall  die  in  convulsions  or  fits. 
Till  I  long  to  be  strolling,- a  gipsy, 

Or  an  Islander  over  the  sea  ; 
Ajiyhow,  ain'thing,  anywhere, 

From  this  dressmaking  once  to  be  free. 

I  can't  quite  believe  in  the  sayings 

Of  Britishers  out  on  a  tour, 
That  America  has  no  dependent, 

And  American  cities  no  poor. 
I  know  we're  a  prosperous  nation, 

But  I  think  the  arrangement  is  bad, 
When  a  shoemaker's  wife  must  go  barefoot, 

And  a  dressmaker  only  half  clad. 

My  own  dresses  lie  in  the  bureau, 

Un trimmed  and  uncut  and  unmade  ; 
And  the  new  ones  I  make  for  my  neighbors, 

Throw  old  ones  of  course,  in  the  shade. 
And  my  customers  smile  when  they  pass  me, 

And  think  I  am  shabby,  no  doubt, 
To  be  out  in  a  cut-away  jacket, 

When  cut-away  jackets  are  out. 

I  wonder  if  gay  Mrs.  Grundy, 

As  she  enters  her  velvet-lined  pew, 
In  a  wonderful  dress  of  my  making, 

Thinks  /may  want  anything  new  ; 
E'er  /shall  be  fitted  to  enter 

My  name  on  the  suppliant's  roll, 
Or  if  /need  a  moment  of  leisure 

To  attend  to  the  wants  of  my  soul. 


DRESSMAKING.  121 

You  may  smile,  if  you  will,  when  I  tell  you, 

But  to  me  it  is  scarcely  a  joke, 
When  I  cannot  mend  even  my  stockings, 

Or  make  my  own  baby  a  cloak. 
When  others  for  health  or  for  pleasure, 

A  day  or  a  half-day  may  spend 
In  riding  or  walking  at  leisure, 

I,  still  to  my  task  must  attend. 

When  others  grown  weary  are  taking 

In  sleep  needed  rest  from  their  toil, 
I,  their  beautiful  dresses  am  making — 

Am  burning  at  midnight  the  oil. 
And  when  in  the  small  hours  of  morning 

My  head  on  the  pillow  is  pressed, 
Unquiet  at  best  is  my  slumber, 

Uneasy  and  troubled  my  rest. 

My  hands  are  still  shaping  the  ruffles 

Or  basting  the  trimming  between, 
My  feet  are  still  nervously  treading 

The  untiring  sewing  machine. 
And  so  I  must  work  without  ceasing 

Till  Death's  kindly  hand  sets  me  free, 
And  some  one  that's  new  in  the  business 

Shall  stitch  the  last  garment  for  me. 

There  are  some  good  people  I  read  of, 

(I  hope  they  may  all  be  forgiven) — 
Who  think  that  our  work  on  God's  footstool 

Shall  be  our  employment  in  Heaven. 
Away  with  the  empty  delusion  ! 

I  should  be  in  the  depths  of  despair, 
Concerning  those  beautiful  mansions 

If  I  thought  they  made  dresses  up  there  ! 


1-22  DRESSMAKING. 

I  cannot  help  thinking,  however, 

When  sometimes  I  think  at  my  task, 
And  asking  myself  many  questions, 

And  this  one  I  frequently  ask : 
Who,  of  all  my  gay,  dress-loving  patrons, 

With  toilets  so  faultless  and  fair, 
If  called  to  the  upper  assembly 

Would  have  a  dress  ready  to  wear? 

There  is  to  be  one  day  a  banquet — 

A  wedding  at  which  every  guest, 
For  a  seat  at  the  great  marriage  supper, 

In  a  glorious  garb  must  be  dressed. 
'Tis  an  ancient,  old-fashioned  garment. 

Described  in  an  old-fashioned  book  ; 
'Tis  priceless  ;  the  longer  the  wearing, 

The  brighter  and  purer  'twill  look. 

It's  worth  is  beyond  comprehension  ; 

It  cannot  be  purchased  with  gold, 
But  given  to  all  who  will  wear  it, 

Designed  for  the  young  and  the  old. 
Alike  unto  all  'tis  becoming — 

Made  white  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb ; 
To  be  worn  at  the  final  reception 

Of  Jehovah — the  mighty  I  Am. 


A  REVERIE. 

["A  stranger  in  a  strange  land."    Among  the  writer's  earliest  rhymes.] 

Again  with  strangers!     Shall  I  grieve? 
That,  for  the  new,  old  friends  I  leave, 
Or  that  the  glances  I  receive, 

Are  stranger  glances? 
Morn,  noon  and  night,  I  daily  meet 
Strange  forms  and  faces  on  the  street, 
Wondering  if  e'er  as  friend  they'll  greet, 

As  time  advances. 

My  lot  it  seems,  where'er  I  dwell, 
Only  to  stay  till  friendship's  spell 
So  binds  me,  that  to  say  farewell 

Brings  thoughts  of  sorrow  ; 
And  while  to  roving  I'm  inclined, 
Tis  hard  to  part — (and  be  resigned), 
With  friends  to-day,  only  to  find 

Strangers  to-morrow. 

Yet  these  same  strangers,  I  confess, 
May  cheer  me  by  their  kind  address. 
And  I  may  yet  have  cause  to  bless 

Their  kindly  faces. 
So,  from  all  murmurs  I  refrain  : 
Too  glad  am  I  to  once  complain — 
Glad  that  for  me  the  lines  have  lain 

In  pleasant  phi. 


134  A  REVERIE. 

A  year !  O,  is  it  then  a  year, 

Si nre  Mississippi's  watersNclear  ( ?) 

Bore  me  afar  from  friends  so  dear? 

Ah  !  time  is  gliding. 
On  fair  Wisconsin's  soil  they  stay, 
Where  song-birds  'mid  the  maples  play, 
While  I  in  this  great  Iowa, 

Am  now  residing. 

Others,  in  pleasant  Illinois, 
Earth's  purest,  sweetest  gifts  enjoy, 
I'd  fain  with  them  my  tongue  employ 

In  social  psean. 

Still,  wandering  here  and  there,  I've  met 
With  those  I  love  to  think  of  yet, 
Aye,  those  I  never  shall  forget — 

And  some  in  Leon. 

And  if  the  friends  I  here  may  find, 
Should  be  in  any  way  less  kind, 
Less  true  than  those  I  leave  behind, 

And  less  alluring, 
I'll  oftener  in  remembrance  hold, 
While  with  the  new,  the  absent  old, 
Affection  too,  though  never  cold, 

Be  more  enduring. 

But  in  the  sacred  evening  hour, 
When  joy  pervades  the  social  bower, 
Or  music  lends  her  magic  power 

The  heart  to  soften, 
Let  mine  be  one  song,  I  entreat, 
The  favorite  one,  both  sad  and  sweet, 
And  my  name  at  the  mercy  seat 

Be  mentioned  often. 


A  REVERIE.  125 

Be  this  boon  granted,  and  content 
Is  mine  where'er  my  steps  are  bent ; 
And  may  my  life,  as  one  well  spent, 

Bear  no  repining, 
That  grace  sufficient  be  allowed, 
And  faith  e'en  when  by  sorrow  bowed, 
To  find  beneath  the  darkest  cloud 

A  silver  lining. 


PRAYER  OF  THE  BEREAVED: 

O,  Thou  that  hearest  prayer, 

Help  me  this  hour  to  pray  ; 
"Thy  will,  not  mine  be  done," 

Help  me,  O  God,  to  say ; 
Help  me  in  Thee  to  trust — 

Yea,  trust,  "though  Thou  shouldst  slay."" 

Though  Thou  shouldst  slay  me  quite, 

And  all  my  treasures  wrest 
From  out  my  clinging  clasp, 

My  well  beloved  and  best ; 
And  leave  my  bleeding  heart 

Fainting,  and  sore  oppressed. 

O,  Thou  that  answerest  prayer, 

Help  me  Thy  voice  to  hear ; 
Help  me  to  know  Thou  chasteneth 

Souls  unto  Thee  most  dear, 
Help  me  through  sorrow's  waves 

To  feel  that  Thou  art  near. 

Near  to  support  Thine  own 

With  never  failing  might; 
Near  to  bid  darkest  gloom 

Give  way  to  morning  light; 
And  turn  the  mourner's  cry 

To  songs,  throughout  the  night. 

Did  I  not  often  pray 
That  Thou  my  boy  wouldst  take? 


PBA  YER  OF  THE  BE  RE  A  VED  121 

Woulclst  of  my  darling-  child, 

Thy  dear  disciple  make? 
Dear  Lord,  did  I  not  ask 

All  this  for  Jesus'  sake? 

0  God,  I  could  not  know 
This  would  the  answer  be  ; 

1  did  not  think  to  have  him  go 
So  soon,  to  Heaven  and  Thee, 

I  thought  to  have  him  mine  and  Thine— 
But  here  on  earth  with  me. 

But  I  remember,  Lord, 

Thou  hast  not  taken  all ; 
If,  quivering  neath  the  blow, 

Crushed  to  the  earth  I  fall, 
Others,  and  precious  ones, 

Still  live — mine  own  to  call. 

Within  my  lonely  room 

I  muse  upon  the  past ; 
Living  again  in  thought, 

The  years  that  all  too  fast 
Flew  by,  and  though  on  gilded  wings, 

Some  sombre  shadows  cast. 

Thrice  have  I  felt  the  chill, 

Dread  touch  of  sorrow's  wave, 
I  laid  my  babe — first-born — 

In  but  a  fairy  grave, 
But  blessed  knew  Thy  hand,  O  God, 

Blessed,  as  when  it  gave. 

Then,  my  companion  dear 

Was  summoned  from  my  side, 
And  bidden  to  that  higher  life, 

E'en  with  the  glorified. 


128  PRATER  OF  TEE  BEREAVED. 

Three  of  the  home  group  now  are  there, 
And  three  on  earth  abide. 

And  I  had  hoped  that  George 
Would  cheer  my  life's  decline  ; 

And  though  my  fondest  hopes  are  dead, 
Lord,  let  me  not  repine, 

Thy  rod,  Thy  staff,  let  comfort  me, 
And,  in  Thy  hand  keep  mine. 

Sometimes,  J  fain  would  leave 
The  changing  scenes  of  earth, 

Of  all  that's  good,  and  real,  and  pure, 
There's  such  a  sickening  dearth, 

And  lives  the  fullest  most  complete, 
Seem  of  such  trifling  worth. 

I  know  not  what  Thou  doest,  now, 

m  Yet  no  complaint  I  bring, 
I  shall  knowT,  when  in  worlds  of  light 

The  glad,  new  song  I  sing, 
And  my  worn  feet  find  rest  within 

The  Palace  of  the  King. 

Till  then,  while  life  is  given, 
Which  may  at  best  be  brief, 

Let  me  to  other  wounded  souls 
Afford  some  sweet  relief, 

And,  easing  heavier  burdened  ones, 
Mourn  less  my  weight  of  grief. 


DEAR  OLD  MOTHER. 

Honor  the  dear  old  mother  ! 

Feeble,  and  trembling  and  bent, 
She  is  but  a  step  from  the  farthest  bound 

Of  the  years  which  the  Master  lent. 

Time's  frosts  are  gathered  upon  her  brow. 

But  her  great  heart  lies  below; 
Only  once  in  a  life  a  friend  like  her. 

Ol5e  heart  like  her's  you  may  know. 

You  never  will  know  the  sacrifice 

Made  over  and  over  for  you, 
That  her  boy  have  this  and  that  for  his  good, 

That  her  child  be  honored  too. 

Honor  the  dear  old  mother  ! 

Life's  battle,  so  long  and  tough, 
She  has  nobly,  patiently,  cheerfully  borne, 

Nor  murmured  "The  way  is  rough  !" 

The  hands  of  the  dear  old  mother, 

Withered,  and  skinny  and  spare, 
Are  the  first  that  fondled  your  infant  brow, 

And  smoothed  back  your  b;iby  hair. 

Honor  the  dear  old  mother  ! 

Faded,  and  thin,  and  meek, 
Are  the  lips  that  taught  you  your  childhood's 
prayer, 

And  kissed  the  hot  tears  from  vour  cheek. 


130  DEAR  OLD  MOTHER. 

Her  hair  is  snowy  ;  her  beautiful  ejres 
Are  faint  in  their  lustre  to-day, 

But  these  have  given  their  measure  of  tears 
That  yours  might  be  driven  away. 

Her  children  never  grow  old  to  her, 
Though  turning  the  brow  of  the  hill, 

Her  tender  watch-care  is  just  the  same, 
To  her  they  are  children  still. 

Going,  her  blessing  is  always  yours, 

And  coming,  'tis  ever  the  same, 
And  when  you  are  gone  'tis  only  with  praise 

The  dear  mother  mentions  your  name. 
And  when  on  some  garment  you  used  to  wear, 

The  dear  mother's  eyes  may  rest, 
She  folds  it  away  with  a  kiss  and  a"*tear, 

And  wonders  if  you  are  blest. 

In  the  drama  of  life  dishonored  you  fall, 
And  naught  of  the  world's  honors  wrest  ? 

She  will  gather  you  up  in  her  arms  again, 
And  call  you  her  dearest  and  best. 

She  will  welcome  you  back  to  the  old  fireside. 

To  rest  in  her  old  arm-chair; 
Though  bitterly  all  the  world  may  hate, 

There's  nothing  but  love  for  you  there. 

Honor  the  dear  old  mother  ! 

Old-fashioned,  simple,  and  plain, 
Some  day  your  heart  will  long  for  a  sight 

Of  the  old-fashioned  mother,  in  vain. 

Some  day,  and  soon;  it  will  have  to  come, 

Ere  many  a  day  and  night, 
Will  the  tender  eyes  and  the  folded  hands 

Be  buried  beyond  your  sight. 


BEAUTIFUL  RAIN. 

Ah  !  the  rain  !  the  beautiful  rain  ! 
We  waited  its  coming  so  long,  and  in  vain. 
How  we  longed,  how  we  hoped,  how  we  hailed  every 

sign 

Bearing  promise  of  rain,  till  forced  to  resign 
Each  fond  hope  in  turn,  as  we  said  with  a  sigh, 
Truly,  "All  signs  may  fail  when  the  weather  is  dry ;" 
But  now  there's  no  reason  to  longer  complain, 
Once  more  it  has  come  to  us— -beautiful  rain. 

Ah  !  the  rain  !  the  beautiful  rain  ! 
It  seemed  that  on  high  'twould  forever  remain. 
We  looked  at  the  meadows  and  thought  of  their  need, 
And  wondered  if  God  had  forgotten  to  heed 
The  cry  of  His  creatures  whose  want  was  so  sore, 
Since  the  beautiful  rain  fell  upon  them  no  more, 
Yet  knew,  while  we  doubted,  that  we  were  secure, 
Secure  by  that  word  through  all  time  to  endure, 
That  naught  upon  earth  'gainst  that  word  could  pre 
vail, 

That  seed-time  and  harvest  should  never  once  fail, 
Once  more  have  we  proven  to  trust  is  not  vain, 
For  the  early,  and  latter,  the  beautiful  rain. 

Ah  !  the  rain  !  the  beautiful  rain  ! 
It  came  to  my  window  and  tapped  on  the  pane, 
So  loudly  I  woke  from  my  sleep  with  a  stare. 
To  see  who  had  ventured  that  hour  to  come  there  ; 


132  BEAUTIFUL  RAIN. 

Then  listened  again  ;  was  I  hearing  aright  ? 
T  was  n't  anything  stealing  around  to  affright, 
I  could  not  mistake  it,  the  voice  was  too  plain, 
The  loved,  though  long  silent,  sweet  voice  of  the  rain. 

Farewell  to  my  dreams,  and  my  slumbers  so  sweet, 
If  late  be  my  guest,  greater  welcome  is  meet, 
And  turned  from  my  couch  where  I'd  wearily  lain, 
To  welcome  the  blessed,  the  beautiful  rain. 

I  opened  the  window  to  catch  a  bright  drop, 
Half  trembling  for  fear  it  might  very  soon  stop, 
And  breathlessly  listened — 'twas  falling  so  still — 
So  gently,  just  then,  but  just  heard  on  the  sill, 
And  before  this,  you  know,  we  ;d  had  a  slight  fall — 
Once  or  twice,  a  few  raindrops,  a  few — that  was  ail- 
But  still  it  fell  softly  on  lattice  and  pane, 
The  musical,  murmuring,  beautiful  rain. 

I  sat  by  the  window  and  leaned  forth  my  head, 

That  some  precious  drops  upon  me  might  be  shed, 

And  wished  that  I  too,  with  the  trees  and  the  flowers, 

Might  indulge  a  full  bath  in  the  health-giving  showers. 

Then  my  heart  in  deep  gratitude  turned,  as  it  should, 

To  the  All-wise,  the  bountiful  Giver  of  Good, 

Who  supplies  from  His  fullness  our  wants  that  annoy, 

Who  giveth  us  richly  all  things  to  enjoy, 

And  thought  what  unsatisfied  creatures  are  we, 

Blind,  self-loving  mortals,  unwilling  to  see 

His  banner  of  love,  too  often  repelled, 

Unprizing  His  favors  till  they  are  withheld, 

And  thanked  Him  for  blessings  a  numberless  train, 

And  withal  for  the  gracious,  the  beautiful  rain. 

Then  I  wondered  who  else,  with  spirits  as  light, 

Was  hailing  the  rain  coming  down  in  the  night ; 


BEAUTIFUL  RAIN.  133 

And  thought  of  the  farmer,  and  wished  I  might  go 
To  tell  him  'twas  come — what  he  'd  murmured  for  so. 
I  knew  he  had  looked  his  broad  fields  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  felt  they  were  never  so  withered  before, 
.Did  he  know  'twas  wat'ring  hill,  valley  and  plain  ? 
The  wonderful,  bountiful,  beautiful  rain  ? 

At  morn  again,  turning  my  steps  to  the  street, 
Resuming  as  usual  my  every-day  beat, 
How  pleasing  the  change  to  my  quick  notice  brought, 
Which    the  rain,  falling  down   in  the  darkness,  had 

wrought. 

The  trees  were  all  sparkling  and  washed  of  their  dust, 
Green  leaves  were  repolished,  beginning  to  rust, 
Tender  plants  seemed  to  say,  "We  are  living  again, 
It  has  saved  us  from  dying — the  beautiful  rain." 

The  clear  sky  o'erhead  was  more  beautiful,  too, 
And  seemed  to  be  painted  a  new  coat  of  blue, 
The  song  of  the  birds,  the  sweetest  heard  yet, 
For  the  throat  of  each  gay  little  warbler  was  wet, 
And  its  plumage  relieved  of  each  tarnish  and  stain, 
By  a  dash  of  the  beautiful,  life-giving  rain. 

( ll;id  children  were  sporting  along  the  clean  walk, 
The  hous; -wives  met  out  in  their  gardens  to  talk, 
And  grandfather  said,  as  he  leaned  on  his  cane, 
"It  is  good  to  be  out  since  the  beautiful  rain." 

I  thought  I  was  weary ;  last  night  through  the  heat, 
As  homeward  I  dragged  my  slow,  dust-laden  feet, 
And  craving  relief  for  my  dull,  aching  head, 
All  earth  was  a  desert,  all  toil  was  a  dread. 
But  now  with  new  life  seemed  my  being  to  fill, 
As  I  walked  to  my  labor  with  perfect  good  will, 


134  BEAUTIFUL  RAIN. 

It  hath  soothed,  it  hath  charmed,  it  hath  rested  me 

quite, 

The  beautiful  rain  that  I  welcomed  last  night. 
And  then,  all  unbidden,  there  came  without  call, 
A  thought  of  another  rain  suffered  to  fall 
On  the  just  and  the  unjust,  I  need  not  define, 
It  has  been  upon  your  path  and  been  upon  mine ; 
When  our  hearts  catch  the  droppings  of  sorrow  and 

pain, 
What  is  there  to  make  it  a  beautiful  rain  ? 

But  one,  our  Creator,  who  knoweth  our  frame, 
"Yesterday,  now,  and  forever  the  same," 
Who,  seeing  our  life  from  beginning  to  end, 
Best  knows  when  the  sunshine  and  showers  to  send  ; 
And  sometime  beyond  all  this  tumult  and  strife, 
This  fettered  existence  we  only  call  life, 
In  the  sunlight  of  Heaven,  all  things  rendered  plain, 
We  may  find  even  this  was  God's  beautiful  rain. 


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2li3li         Rhymes  of 
-M3il6r — Ruth  Ha;:u 


